


Pride and Prejudice

by gnomeicecream, KRMalana



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive family dynamics, Acephobia, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, BDSM, Biting, Blindfolds, Bondage, Butt Plugs, D/s, Demisexuality, Flower Language, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Love Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Forced Prostitution, Miscommunication, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Safewords, Sappiness, Spanking, Strip Tease, Switching, Tattoos, Trust Issues, Virginity, Voice Kink, a glass case of emotions, completely consensual slave master roleplay, costumed sex, crappy attempts at elvhen, dick pics by snail mail, elves of color, gratuitous cuddling, hand holding, magical hair, manipulation of people in intimate situations, masked sex, mentions of torture, multiple infractions of panty theft, these people never seem to find a bed to have sex in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeicecream/pseuds/gnomeicecream, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRMalana/pseuds/KRMalana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirthamen never expected that it would be Solas, the enemy of his twin Falon'Din, that would awaken his heart and body to feelings he had long since decided did not exist for him.</p><p>or</p><p>A romance set at the end of the times of Arlathan. Intrigue, sex, and danger all collide to keep these star crossed lovers apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A roleplay turned fic about Solas and Dirthamen set in Elvhenan.
> 
> There are already a few more chapters in the works and as such a chunk of the tags are for future chapters.  
> (In other words, Falon'Din is a delightful ass )

All eyes were on the raised dais and the elf toasting the beginning of the masquerade. Though he was as masked and costumed as his guests all knew who he was. Heavy gold and precious stones covered each powerful limb, and all topped with the mask like a night bird of prey. The passage of a single figure among the crowd went intentionally unnoticed. Just one more mask among many as he sought the chance to quietly enjoy a moment of peace before he was made to perform. His eyes, shadowed by a silver-wire mask and the veil over his head, look out over the shimmering mass of elves. Each one trying to outdo the other with louder colors, brighter gems and in so doing managing to look exactly the same. He isn't much better in the costume his brother picked out, pale and silver jewelry on every limb. His veils and skirts are all in shades of dusky blue, the layers of fabric pinned and tied to make them removable as part of a dance.

He finds a likely pillar to hide behind, curtained off so that slaves may move freely between the refreshment tables and kitchens without being seen by the guests. If he hides long enough, his brother may even forget his reason for the party. He sips at a glass of wine reluctantly as nothing more palatable to drink had been provided in between fiddling with his raven feather earrings. There was a 'discussion' about including them, but he enjoys his small rebellions, however long they last. It kept him from thinking of the lilac flower pinned to his outermost veil, or it had been.

It’s a new game that someone had come up with to add to the mystery of the masquerade and a private 'joke' on him. “It's time someone plucked your flower,” his brother said when helping him dress. But that doesn't mean he intends to actually give it to someone tonight, figuratively or literally...though they be the same thing in this instance. That is another point of contention between them he wishes that could be soothed, his inability to find someone that wakes his desires. He takes a deep breath, thinking of calming techniques that were usually effective when faced with his twin’s ideas. He just needs to remain unseen until his dance, then he can go home. He might even enjoy it. The dance was one that he was learning for his own edification before this whole debacle. 

He is contemplating the risk of ducking out to quickly plunder the nearby refreshment table when the curtain of his hiding place is disturbed from the wrong side for it to be slaves; the same place he had made his stealthy entry. He freezes, hoping that whoever it was would fail to notice him against the pillar and took note of the guest. Male, with sleek muscle subtly shown by a cream colored shirt and clothes taken after the design of armor with leather and buckles on arms, leg and chest. His mask is leather as well, but painted with a seemingly familiar design. The bone clawed gloves on his hands lend him an air of danger, contrasted by the anemone flower curled into the shoulder buckle of his breastplate. His gaze is harsh and assessing before his face closes off to polite neutrality. The sharp line of his jaw leads up to pointed ears bare of any ornament, then hair cut away from the bottom of the head but left to grow into long braids at the top.

The stranger stands straight but awkwardly, as though he had not expected to find this small secluded space occupied. Indeed, there are other alcoves along the walls far better suited to privacy...with one or more guests, as is the nature of the evening. “Ah. Hello. I apologize for disturbing you...I...Ahem.” He turns to the pillar, drawing the curtain slightly aside to look out. After a few moments it becomes clear that he intends to ignore the other man if the courtesy is returned.

When it is apparent the man has no plans to charm him, he relaxes. A soft exhale of breath he didn't know he held. The plans he had made to escape through the servants’ passage is stored for the moment. There is a slight feeling of comradery and comfort at the knowledge he isn't the only one who might wish to slip away unnoticed tonight. "Are you hiding too?" The whisper escapes him, curiosity too great to stop it.

The man looks over, one eyebrow raised, “Hiding? Of course not. I am merely observing the events of the party without being disturbed by undesirable company.” He winks and makes as though to resume his previous position, but steps back to avoid being seen as a guest wanders dangerously close by. He runs a hand through his braids, smiling ruefully. “Well. Perhaps I would not care to be discovered just yet.”

The veiled elf couldn't help a smile and soft chuckle, the skin around his eyes wrinkling in amusement as seen through the mask. "A clever endeavor. Although this type of... party... tends to find participants in the nooks and crannies."

“So, why are you not finding a charming partner to lure into a cranny more suited then this one? Or do the roasted nug and cakes require a chaperone?”

"This one is suited to me just fine, as I have no desire to partner for the evening. As you might understand."

He hums to himself, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd for a moment, “If that woman there, with the fake gem scarf moves just a bit further, I'll have a clear shot to grab some cakes without being seen....”

He leaned a bit closer to the man. Not to draw his attention, but to see something beyond the curtain more clearly. "The man in the bear cloak has been eyeing her far too long not to make a move now. Though whatever possessed him to decide to dye the fur orange is beyond me. The cakes will be available for liberation shortly."

It seems his new companion is as eager to be forthcoming as he is, but it shouldn't matter for too long. He undoes the buckles of one glove, tucking it into his belt. “Hideous. There are offenses against fashion being committed tonight that may never be forgotten.” He tenses, as though to make a dash in the opening offered, only to be stymied by two couples exiting the dance floor nearby. He huffs with irritation. “ I did not plan ahead...Allow me to propose an alliance. Keep watch, and create a distraction if it seems I will be discovered, and I will return with delicacies enough to share.”

His smile is unseen under his veil. "Agreed. May you find success." He steps forward as the man slips away, holding the curtain lightly in his hand as it fell back into place. When it seemed like a couple would draw too close he extended a flicker of magic to waft the smell of roasted nug in their direction. His hunch about the slight curve of one's belly proves correct as she pressed at hand to her mouth, violently gagging. Attention turns to her, others murmuring, refreshments forgotten. His eyes twinkle again as the man returns undiscovered.

“Well and subtly done.” He offers the single plate with an assortment of cakes and meats hastily assembled from the table. “As a reward, have first choice. Of anything on offer.” He raises a hand to his mouth, licking away strawberry jam in a deliberately suggestive way though his is smile remains friendly.

The smile is returned, amusement making the eyes above the veil even bright. "Thank you." A honey cake dusted with lavender sugar is chosen. The veil lifts as he takes a bite, letting light catching on his dark feather earrings. "So what brought you here, if not to participate in the party? Were you dragged here too?"

The man takes his time selecting a cake before settling for the strawberry jam and chocolate. “I was to meet a friend, but it seems they have been delayed. I believe I may have been set up. Another of my friends has let me know that I have been working too hard, and may have thought herself clever in arranging for me to be stuck at a party.” He leans back against the pillar.

"Then I might just take your misfortune as my good fortune, if you don't mind continuing to share our hiding spot." The longer the two talk and spend their time secreted away, the more he seems to relax. It is nice to talk to this stranger even if it is for a short while. His manner of speech and presence betrays a learned man and he wonders what it is he studies. Ah, but a way to ask him without prying...

“Your presence has already made what promised to be a dull and uncomfortable night more than bearable.” The stranger picks another cake. Apparently, he has a sweet tooth. “Perhaps once enough 'players' have been removed from the game, we'll be able to find a more comfortable place to talk. I, for one, intend to end the night flower intact. The entire production lacks for tact, though I would expect no better from our host.”

"I cannot argue with that, as I have been unable to escape a fair number of similar events, leaving me with more than enough evidence." He finishes off his own pastry. His fingers disappear one by one to be quietly sucked clean. The stranger draws in a sharp breath, watching him closely for some reason."Nothing is... interesting when everything is all laid out and there's nothing to learn. I'd much prefer a discussion of magical theory practicums or even spirit co-existence and exchange... but they'd just argue about that too..."

“Is that the reason for your choice of attire? Only those who put in the effort of hunting your secrets are worthy of receiving them? I am finding myself drawn to the challenge.” He picks up another cake from the plate, holding it out in offering. “I'll have to find some way to draw you out.”

"If only that were the case." He says with soft laugh. He wonders if he should tell the stranger the best secret. That he has all but guessed his identity without plucking a single petal. A hand brushed the skirt at his hip to wipe away invisible crumbs as his eyes were drawn to the cake, wondering... He took it with a smile, fingers brushing against the stranger's for a moment. "Do you often take on challenging topics?" A soft question before he takes a bite.

“I do. The thrill of unraveling layers of complexity can be its own reward, but it is of course all the sweeter when the prize at the end justifies the effort.” A loud song begins playing, signaling another stage in the festivities for those who are actually participating. Chatter and music compete, making discussion more difficult. He slides closer so that he might still be heard while talking quietly enough to avoid detection.

"I have seen that time and again, but few make the effort to complete the journey. I was captivated by the battle-dances of the far north, but in reality one must first master of dances such as--" He had made to gesture to his outfit but stopped when the stranger drew so close.

Slaves move in and out of their hiding place, separated only by a thin curtain. He leans down near the veil over an ear “Would you mind terribly cleaning my fingers as well? I seem to have gotten them dirty in your service.”

It took several long moments to register what he had said and even then it was hard to believe it. His ears began to tip with red while hoping he wasn't misinterpreting the words, as his brother loved to do. "I don't have a napkin... but... there are enough layers to this that surely I could sacrifice a corner..." He made to loosen the end of one layer tucked into his belt.

The stranger laughs quietly, blocking the other man in from one side. “Surely you don't intend to sully your lovely clothes? I seem to recall you had a solution when it was your hands that were covered in sugar.” He taps a knuckle gently against where his chin is hidden. “And do not mistake me. While I am fascinated by the dance that inspired your costume, my interest lies in the man who is wearing it.”

"Oh..." Things click into place, as they often do in his mind. So the stranger had meant that when he had asked. But where there usually was annoyance, disinterest at the lack of anything in response there was... thrill. Excitement. Like warm bolts of electricity spreading from the touch on his chin. He took a few breathes that he hoped were quiet to steady himself. Hand raised, fingers curling, almost touching instead of pushing him away. "If... if you don't mind, then..?" The fingers worked to remove the pin the held up one corner of the veil over his lower face. The mask was more than enough to keep his identity. His skin is pale, as his ears and hands suggested, with a softly shaded mouth. There are a few rougher spots on his lower lip, as if he unconsciously chews it while concentrating. His magic flutters again when he takes the hand in both of his and places one of the fingers in his mouth.

The stranger sighs, eyes slipping closed. “Mmm, you're so sweet.” He kisses a blushing ear tip before brushing his thumb over his bottom lip with a touch of healing creation energy. “I would prefer for your lips to bear my bite marks, if you are of a mind to allow it.”

If he had thought his reaction a fluke, an outlier, he is mistaken. The warmth spreads again at the kiss on his ear. Goosebumps at his gaze. A shiver at the thumb on his lip. What is happening? A whisper only just heard above the music and crowd, "Perhaps... if you do not find... concern in our location..."

“I am sure there is a suitable venue to be found. Follow me.” He leans, hesitating at the last inch before their lips come together and raises his ungloved hand to caress his cheek. “Later.” He pins the veil back into place, peaks around the curtain then takes the other man’s hand and steps out into the open. Along the side of the ballroom are a honeycomb of small alcoves, each with curtains either open or shut depending on occupancy. From behind each closed curtain are pairs or more voices joined together. He can only follow. The dusk blue fabric swirls about his legs, the jewelry and beads making soft sounds as they move. There is no thought to the other guests. No concern that his brother's gaze might happen in their direction. Need to fulfill the urge to kiss the man that had arisen when their mouths were so close. His stranger takes the extra time to select a place far away from the others, inconveniently located at the far end of the ballroom near the garden doors. After shuffling them both inside, he pulls the cord on the curtain.

He isn't naive as to what might be done here, no. But he feels like a giddy fool because he... this feeling of... All awakening and new. Cautiously, he reached up and plucked a petal from the flowers pinned into his veil. Holding it out delicately before he loses his nerve. "If... if I may? You were about to... kiss..."

“...Sweet little flower.” The stranger holds out his ungloved hand, palm up, taking the petal. “Let me?” He takes the veil down again and sets it aside as a safe place to set the petal on. He moves slowly as he returns, his hand coming around to grip him lightly on the back on the neck. “Let me know if you want to stop at any time, da'daris.” He leans down, head slightly tilted, and gives the barest brush of his lips. And does it again. If it doesn't count as his one kiss, he doesn't have to stop, yet. He brushes over the side of his mouth, the point of his chin, up the curve of his jaw. Softly, gently. Then back to his mouth, pressing in, his thumb at the hook of his jaw to encourage it open. Then he pulls back to lightly nip at the bottom lip. He huffs a small laugh and looks through the mask into his eyes. His thumb is still stroking his jaw absently.

Each glancing touch is almost enough to make him gasp. It doesn't disgust him as the few others he's had. Doesn't make him want to coil back and strike. He almost doesn't need the touch on his jaw when it is deepened to a true kiss, mouth opening to allow the man to do as he will. He isn't used to the strange noise that comes out of his mouth when the stranger drew back. This vibration low in his throat. Unaware of his tongue darting to touch the recent marks. Again. He'd like to do it again...another hand reaching up, cheeks flushed. Reaching for another petal, another present to accompany his request. "If...I could ask of you... Another kiss?"

The stranger takes the petal wordlessly, giving it a kiss as well before setting it gently next to the other. The only furnishing in the alcove is a wide couch that he guides them both to, sitting side by side. “Precious. All of the kisses you want are yours, you need only ask. Or take, if the urge were to strike you.” This time he doesn't hesitate, nor start slow. He begins the kiss open mouthed, hard, tongue darting out to taste, finding hints of sugar.

The blue dressed elf seems to melt into him. Hand on the chest as both a balance and anchor. He studies, learns, imitates. Inexperience and curiosity makes his response gentle, something to savor rather then devour. When they finally parted long enough to draw breath he moves closer. Placing a kiss on the sharp cheekbones seen below the mask. The strong presence of his chin. His cheeks are flushed now and there's nothing he could do about it.

 

His fingers brush across the flower curled into the shoulder of the man’s breast plate. It makes him pause, realization blooming in his mind. He is quite aware of what might come next. It is the knowledge that, for the very first time, he is the one to want it. Not something expected of him, not something used to belittle or test him. Even as he tries to find the words to ask the stranger chuckles and runs a hand down to his own flower. "Do you want this, da'daris? My earlier reluctance has all but fled. I'll give it to you."

His mouth continues working, making soft shapes as his breath hitches. The point of the still gloved hand draws along his jaw as the stranger untangled himself. 

"It’s your choice." He lays back on the couch, laying out with one hand behind his head, on display. "Shall I show you what to do, da'daris? Do you want to touch, like this?" And he moves one hand down his body, slowly. Allows it to raise and fall with the curve of his chest, the dip of his hips.

He can only watch, bright eyes slowly becoming hungry. They trace every movement, over and over. Until his hand is there, right next to his, following his movement.

The stranger laughs softly again, letting the space stay quiet and intimate "So quiet. I'm sure I don't know what you want unless you tell me. Do you want me to remain fully clothed? Just soft touches and the barest hint of pleasure? Shall I bare myself for you, make myself available in every way?" He touches his flower again, and pulls one petal away. "Shall I give you this, and more?"

A long fingered hand reaches out. A moment, seemingly reaching for the petal. But it moves beyond. Beyond to lay a single, warm touch on the exposed skin of his wrist. It slides slowly. Finally the other fingers settle, light as a feather, over the pulse. "Yes," a turn of the head, of eyes catching the light. "And more…"

The offered hand turns, catches, and pulls his Da'daris down for a kiss, the most passionate yet. "If you touch me here," he motions to his neck where it meets his ear "I will feel the heat of it from the tips of my ears down to my core. Bite it softly, and I'll ache for you. Do it again and again, as hard and soft as it pleases you, and I will come undone for you."

"How well you know yourself," the words slip out, teasing. He tries to steady his breath to hide how the words flutter strangely in his stomach. One leg curls and he kneels on the cushions, ever so lightly leaning in. One hand to steady himself, one fingers the stitching of the costume as it settles on his chest. His scent is warm, like earth and leather, as his lips press against his skin.

The man lets his head fall to the side with a sigh. "There. Good, yes. Do you want to know what it would feel like?" He leans up to speak against the edge of his ear, letting his lips brush against it as he whispers, "Do you think it would feel like electricity against your soft skin?Shall I let you experience it?" He moved closer, hovering just above his shoulder, and waits.

He cannot help the soft gasp that escapes him, either from surprise at his movements or the way his skin shivers at the touch at his ear is unclear. He studies the masked face for a moment. A wolf, the thought comes to him, a hungry wolf. He turned his head ever so slightly, baring his neck for a touch he prayed would come. "Please."

The wolf masked man sucks in a quick breath. "So sweet, giving yourself to me." He laves his tongue over his shoulder, then blows against the damp skin. He grips Da'daris' hips with both hands before sinking his teeth in, slowly, increasingly the pressure incrementally. Then release. His own voice escapes from him. Gasps, tiny cries. He's never learned. How to keep himself quiet. How to edge someone on. How to portray pleasure. Each is as raw and pure as the bites on his neck.

He moved to another spot, and sucks, nipping gently. He peppers his neck with soft kisses as his hands rub up and down, soothing. Pulling him tighter, hips moving in slow thrusts. His body of its own accord has begun to move in response. A new sound escapes him in a whimper. His lips and nose nuzzle at the soft spot beyond the man's jaw, desperate to anchor himself for even a moment.

"My flower, just like that. Shall I continue to tell you what will bring you pleasure? Do you lips tingle with want of kisses? Does your chest ache to be soothed by twists of my hands, pulls of my teeth? Do you want to feel the slide of my bared flesh against yours?" There is oil under the couch. He slips one hand down to find it. "Do you want to watch as I make ready to take or be taken by you?"

"I....I..." Whatever it is he wishes seems to laugh as it escapes him, no matter how hard he swallows the wet hunger in his mouth. The thoughts swirl around his mind like autumn leaves, one clear as a bell only to be silenced by the pleasant hum of the next. He pushes up to his knees, spread on either side of his Wolf's thighs, to look at him, but it makes him dizzy. A hand suddenly finds another and flattens against it. He takes a steadying breath for each finger that interlaces, hoping he is imagining the tremble.

The stranger runs his hands down the thighs of the man above him in soft, soothing motions as he waits patiently. His breath is coming fast, and his close as tips his head back, drawing in a deep breath to fortify himself , "If you want, only if you want, da'daris. I am yours to command."

"I want... but don't know what I want." The dancer laughs softly at himself, voice barely a whisper. His heartbeat thunders above his voice in his ears. "How can I answer with no experience to draw upon..." His lips sealed with an intake of air. He cannot see himself, but can certainly feel the heat that has surely spread from his cheeks to his ear and neck. What with his Wolf think of him now, his secret bare?

"Slowly, then, ma'daris, take your time. I shall be at your mercy, if you would be content to explore me at your leisure. I will tell you how much each touch excites me, how I want you to push harder, to use your nails, to bring your magic rippling against my skin." He sets his hands down on the couch, balled up in the silk. "Tell me. Which you want.”

"All of that, to me." His breath hitches in excitement as he makes himself say it. "But as you do, I wish to follow. To touch you, to... learn." One of his hands settled on one curled in the silk. Light pressure, just above the bones. He can feel the texture change to calluses at the tips of his fingers. He wonders what his Wolf does with those hands. And what they could do to him. He wants. He wants. For a few breaths his magic curls out, like a sigh, like a light weight, before he realizes and draws it back.

"Fehendis!" The stranger shudders, leans up, twists, pulls the other man under him. He presses desperate kisses to his mouth while he repositions them both. The kisses pressed to his mouth swallows the sounds he makes. Wolf's weight and presence bearing down on him send a thrill up his spine. He press his feet against the silk, pushing up. He tries to move, tries to offer the places where the ties to his clothes can be unlaced. A hand slides under cloth, driving the tips of his fingers into giving muscle, dragging them down, letting his nails catch the skin.

"Let me take this off. Keep a hold of your magic, just like this." He demonstrates with a brush of ice over a bruise that has formed on his neck, melts it away, then chases the water with his tongue. His back arches at the sudden cold followed by the heat. Goosebumps race against his skin, nipples hardening painfully.

The wolf-masked elf moved down, placing kisses and bites to flesh both exposed and hidden by cloth. He leaned back on his knees, looking down, and reached out to move the fabric aside. His flower was wearing a thin undergarment made of the same material as his costume, tented and damped by the hard cock beneath it. There are dancer's ribbons woven along his legs. The dancer watches his movements, hesitant, wanting but fearful."Tell me yes, Da'Daris." He reaches out, letting the backs of his fingers rest lightly against him.

He wants to move his legs, to hide himself and the unfamiliar sensations. The soft light of the alcove reflects off the small black feathers in his earrings as he looks to his Wolf. The flush is back to his checks as he nods. "Please..."

The undergarments are slid down slowly. He pins the other man’s legs under his own, steadies him with a hand at the base of his cock, then laps up the fluid from the head in slow. lingering. licks. He doesn't understand the song that comes out of him. Only that his knuckles curl in his mouth to stop it

The man forms a seal with his mouth, sucking as he sinks down, then licking as he pulls back up. He keeps his eyes focused on his da'daris' face, watching for signs of pleasure or distress. His confining leather costume stymies his attempts to open it with a clawed gloved hand. He grunts in frustration and thwarted arousal. All the while, he moves rhythmically, up and down.

He bites into his knuckles until they are raw. He can't take it anymore and tries to move. His legs, his hips, anything. One hand tries to find purchase, trying to touch his Wolf. "P-p-please..." His face is raw and open. Mouth parted with lips slightly swollen from kissing. Magic shifting color behind heavily lidded eyes

He hums, pulling up slowly, sucking and licking, then pulls free with a pop. His hand takes up where he left off, pumping, using the saliva left for slick. "Ma da'daris, I have you. Let me see you come undone. You're beautiful. You'll be beautiful. That’s it." His voice is rough and gone to gravel.

That's all it seems to take to completely unravel him. He arches, hands clawing desperately at whatever they can grasp. The breath escape him for the moment. His Wolf's voices throbs in his mind just as the waves of pleasure rack his body. Losing control, a hair, a fraction. Racing just under his skin, bursting against his Wolf like tiny stars. It takes him a tiny eternity in a few moments to return to himself. He locks eyes with his Wolf, the warm smile curling before it turns shy

"Perfect." He catches his lips in a soft kiss, slotting their bodies together. The stranger falls to his side, pulling his flower with him. "Take a moment. Catch your breath. You're amazing. " He continues to run his hands up and down the other man’s body as he lets his kisses fall leisurely on his nose, his brow, his lips. "So sweet, da'daris."

Da'daris. Little flower. He's called him that this whole time. It warms his chest and he savors it. The pleasure still hums through him as his hands move as well, making them warm so they can be felt through the costume. "Fen’orain..." Precious. The word slips out as he presses his mouth against the man's throat

The wolf-masked man shudders, tipping his head back. "Yes, that, more..." He bits down on his lip.“ Ah, if we had our time, I would open you up with my hands, my mouth on you. I would make your body ready with oil slicked fingers. You would be so undone by pleasure my flower, before I even began to take you. You deserve nothing but the utmost consideration."

How could he do any less than oblige? He shifts his body so he can balance his forearm across his Wolf's chest. He kisses slowly up the strong jawline until he reaches the mouth that pleases as much as its words. A thumb draws slowly across the soft skin of his lip. "Such a mastery of words..." He tries to respond without flustering. "I wonder though.... if you would tell me what it is you want."

"Hmm..The costume you wear. It is for a certain dance. You said you know it?" The butterfly kisses he is receiving are the most enjoyable torment. He wants more, pressing into them, baring his throat, holding the back of his dears head to prevent an escape.

He had just nipped at his collarbone when the words vibrated against his mouth. The dancer drew back as much as he was allowed in pleasant surprise, fingers tracing where his mouth had been. The eyes are bright with excitement. "The Dance of Veils? Yes." He chews at his lip a moment. But before, he hadn't wanted it. Something his twin had wanted for him. Now...

"I could dance for you, my fen'orain..." He is calmer. Just a little more confident. He rests a hand on his Wolf's waist, fingers so close to the mound he knows his there. Voice dipping lower as he spoke again. "If the time permits you to enjoy it"

"You are either a natural tease, or an exceptionally gifted student, da'daris." He squirms, after the pleasure promised, so close. "Would you permit me to take myself in hand as I watched? Would it please you to know how the sight of you affects me? I want..I.." He bits his lip, self control slowly slipping away under the pounding of his blood.

A smile blooms across his face and he leans forward. Since he cannot place a kiss on the cheek or forehead hidden by the mask he lingers on his lips. A brief touch over the mound, fingernails drawing over the fabric before he moves away. The movements are light, elegant, shifting as the fabric settles around him. Fingers move to release the tiny jeweled pins holding up the first veil to settle over him. Hands weave a spell for music to dance to.

The reclining elf groans. His eyes are riveted on the man before him. "I find the answer to my previous question most pressing." He says "May I? Or do you wish to see me become more desperate?"

The glint in his eyes warns that he considers it, reveling in his sudden power. "Perhaps another time... for now, I will show mercy." He wants to watch. To see his Wolf move and take himself at hand. But the idea of causing a reaction by merely being watched... .

"May all the fade sing your praises!" He is clumsy in his haste, and with only one hand bared, tugging on straps and buckles till he can push his pants down past his hips. His cock is red, flushed, and wet when he works it free. He coats his ungloved hand in oil, stroking in tight, quick pulls.

At first he makes slow elegant patterns with his hands, moving along the lengths of his arms. They trace and grasp under the first veil.He draws the first veil flush against his chest as his body now moves as one to the music. The skirt flutters and flushes against his legs. Glimpses of the bared skin wrapped in ribbon. Releasing the veil his hands trace down his chest, over the bare skin of his stomach. They cross over each other to trace up his sides to his neck.

With an elegant turn he removes the first veil. His flower is still attached to it. He twists the ends carefully until it’s around his hands and wrists, flower cupped in his hands. The dancer lifts his arms until they're over his head. Twists with controlled movements with his stomach down to his hips.

The veil unfurls as he turns, closer to his Wolf for a moment. One hand drops gracefully. The veil draws over his fen'orain's knees. Left, flower within reach. A gift for his viewer. The tempo picks up, his movements quickening, the second veil held in his hands down near his hips

"Just as I thought. Beautiful. I enjoy the sight of a man, willingly binding himself for me. Mmm! Ah...Looking at you, wanting to touch. You'd move that gracefully under me." His every breath is drawn in on a gasp. “On your knees, learning how to give pleasure with your mouth. You'd be so..so ah, sweet, giving to me. Ah! Da'daris!” He is shaking, heels digging into the couch as he finally comes, false claws leaving rends in the silk.

He can't help the rush of air that escapes him. How recently he's been on the receiving end. But to know that he helped to bring it? The elf keeps to the steps, to the dance, but remains facing his Wolf to watch his face. The stranger lets his body sink into the pillows, boneless and sated. He turns to meet Daris' eyes, watching him in return.

There is a flush to his cheeks. But whether it is pleasure at the sight of his Wolf or enjoying the dance is hard to say. There are little crinkles at the edge of his eyes, curves to the tops of his cheeks as he smiles under the veil. The steps are... more free, somehow. Still tantalizing. Still entrancing. A daring, complicated step as his hands move to lift the second veil.

 

There's a breathless sound from the dancer. A happy laugh that he tries to contain so it doesn't disrupt the dance. He's never felt like this. This feeling welling up inside him, as if its wanting to bloom. Why is he dancing? He had no wish to before. Not when his brother had discovered his newest study. Not when he forced him to attend this party. The dancer lifts the second, letting it trail from his elbows, arching his neck as he turned. There are dozens of little curls and wisps of hair, red as the sun, peaking out from the rest of the veil-headdress. He wants... He wants to keep his heart fluttering. For his Wolf to draw him close again, to trail those claws along his skin until everything is seen.

The noise outside their little alcove shifts. The change is in the very air. The music stutters, became muffled. For the first time, there is a near misstep. A movement taken too sharply, a wild glance thrown at the doorway in a turn.

The elf stands, hands held out to catch him if he falls. "Da'Daris?" he asks, eyes turning to the curtain.

"No..." The word is almost too low to hear. The wild glance to his Wolf, his hand curled around his that had reached out to steady him. Desperate. Tight. As if he'd pull the elf to him to shield him. Then he pushes the hand towards the elf's chest, a quick impression with his magic to tell him to run. There's a bark of laughter outside. The clank of too much jewelry as other party members chitter in their laughter after him. "Is that where he's gone?" coming through the curtain.

The stranger only has a moment to decide, hands gripping tight. He pulls on his hand, turning him, kisses him quickly, clawed hand gentle over silk while gripping him tight. Then he gathers the first veil with its flower, and slips back, away.

It seems just in time. The curtain that had made the alcove their own little world is drawn back and nearly off its anchor. An elf stands with the curtain wrapped in a fist. Filling the doorway with his presence is the host of the party, Falon'Din.

 

"So this is where you've been!" The words are light and playful. Yet for a moment the twist to his lips and his grip of his hands is not. "Did you forget you would dance for us?"

"Ah. Is it that late already?" The voice that comes from the veiled elf that is not his own, not like before. Even. Disinterested. Utterly different than the elf a few moments before. "The time had escaped me."

“Only you would sneak away from your own party to practice when you could be enjoying yourself. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Have a slave put you back together, then head to the dias. Five minutes.” He fluffs his brothers hair with one hand, then heads back out. “Don't be late, we're all looking forward to this.”

Dirthamen huffs out a breath. He'll show them a dance. His Wolf has long sense disappeared, but maybe...he'll be in the crowd later. He already has his flower. This might not be a complete disaster of an evening after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen Translations:
> 
> da'daris / ma'daris : little flower / my flower
> 
> fen'orain: equivalent to darling, but also chosen since it includes fen (which also means wolf)


	2. Chapter 2

It seems, years ago, that Dirthamen would have hardly noticed when Falon'Din would set up permanent residence in one of his homes for years at a time. The only reason they kept separate homes at all was for when their duties called them away. But that has not been the case lately. His brother had been in a mercurial mood for months, and at first he had been eager to help. It is part of the reason he had agreed to attend his lavish party, but it doesn't seem to have helped.

His twin is flopped on his couch, making enough noise that ignoring him is impossible. Fear and Deceit give him matching looks of irritation before taking wing with cacophonous cries. He envies them, for there is no such easy escape for himself. He marks his place in his book and sets it aside.

“-not that I care what she thinks, much less what she wears, but can you imagine the kind of gall it takes to try and explain my own interests to me? Damn to the Void, woman, pull your skirts back down and sell it where its wanted. And that's not even-” The bangles on his wrist click and clack as he gestures with his hands.

“Brother.”

“-but thats what I said, which should have ended the matter. It shouldn't take that much effort to get your cock sucked at one of my parties-” He is dressed immaculately today, with red and white sashes and a purple cloak. It’s an improvement over the days when he can't be stirred from bed for days for melancholy.

“Brother.”

“Whaaaaaat?”

“I only asked if you had a good time. I really don't care who you finally tripped into bed.” Dirthamen picks up a stack of books from a cushioned chair next to him and sets out two cups for tea.

Falon'Din scoffs, but he rolls to his feet off the couch anyway and takes the chair. “Of course you don't care. You never care. You resent any fun that I have just ‘cause you choose not to.”

“I wouldn't have asked if, just… never mind. I don't 'choose' not to. I'm not interested.” The teacakes remind him of his masked stranger. He was gone by the time Dirthamen had made it back to the party, which was odd, now that he thinks about it. Maybe he had finally found the friend he had mentioned? He is used to being ignored or looked over for other things… so why did it bother him?

“I threw you a party for no other reason that I wanted you to finally have a good time and you're 'just not interested'. Amazing. I don't know what your problem is lately.”

“I'm sorry. I did put on a show for you and your guests, or does that no longer count for anything?” He stills his fingers from where they are picking at the rim of his teacup. His brother means well.

Falon'Din slumps down in his chair, kicking his feet out. “You didn't want to attend my party.”

“No, I didn't. But that doesn't mean I didn't want you to enjoy it. Do you want to tell me more about-”

“No, I don't feel like it.” Were they really the same age? Falon'Din had inherited their fathers looks and temperament. His blonde hair has all the colors of fire, while his own carries shades of red. But his twin has their mother’s golden eyes, while his are silver that spark with color in response to his magic. Lately, looking at Falon'Din, it no longer felt like looking into a mirror.

“Fine.”

“Fine! Andruil couldn't even find you there. You know she fancies you?”

“She is married.”

“Bah, so was nearly everyone else. How are you going to draw someone’s attention, if you won't let me help you?”

“Oh no. I'll be left alone. To my reading. How could I compete with you? When you look like, that.” He made a gesture at his fine clothes.

“You'd look like 'this'” he mimics the gesture at himself “if you let me dress you like you used to. You need me.” He leans back and then surges forward to his feet, suddenly energized. “Alright, so this plan didn't work out, but don't worry. I'll know next time not to let you out of my sight. We are going to take care of this little ‘problem’ of yours.”

“You don't have to-”

“Nonsense, you are my little brother. Do you know what people are saying about you? We're going to prove them wrong. It's all going to be fine.” Dirthamen kept his mouth shut, even if it is tightening in displeasure. They are twins despite the few minutes between them. But Falon’Din has always called him little. 

 

Even after Falon'Din left he couldn't escape people gossiping about the party in his hearing, making gestures and whispering his name. Apparently, one of the Evanuris stripping out of his clothes in private for all to see is one thing, but doing it in public is quite another. How convinenent they forget it was a veil dance. The tale becomes more sordid with each mile it travels, till not only was he dancing naked for all to see, but he had sex with each guest present.

 

Well, there is some seed of truth to it, anyway. Dirthamen smiles as he pulls out a small glass orb on a chain. Inside are nestled two petals of deep purple. His Wolf had fled before he could learn who he was. There is a lance of worry sitting over his heart, that he won't be able to find him again. His fen'orain.

It shouldn't even matter. What has come over him? But even without the sex, he felt like they had fit. Like meeting an old friend for the first time. Shouldn't matter. Does. Shouldn't.

~*~*~

Mythal keeps a temple in the nearby mountains, where she can watch the dragon mating flights in the spring. When his question does not resolve itself, he arranges a visit. The trees in the many courtyards are in bloom, attended by slaves wearing branching vallaslin. Mythal is seated at a table when he arrives, alone.

“Greetings, Honored Mother, Protector of the Elven.” His robes ruffle in the wind as he bows. “If nothing more pressing demands your attention, I would speak with you.”

“Greetings, Dirthamen, Keeper of the Elven. My boy.” She stands and grips his face, pulling it down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Walk with me, and speak.” Her outfit, for some reason, reminds him of his wolf. Where one would expect finery and softness, she wears deep red leathers studded with metal. Her hair, shaped into the horns of a dragon, reminds any who see her she is a predator. “Has your brother already decided to do something foolish again?”

“I am sure he has, though I do not yet know about it. This is concerning his last foolishness.”

Mythal looks over, one eyebrow raised in question. “No excuses, no hiding his actions? Curious. Are you quarreling?”

“No more than usual. I need advice. I met someone.” For a moment, he hesitates. “At the party.”

Mythal threw her head back and laughed. “Why, you've come to me? You are a fair scholar, I am sure you can figure out how courtship is done.”

He restrains himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. “No, its... I don't understand why. There is no purpose. No advantage. I don't know his name. Not knowing… it is eating at me.”

“Maybe it is the mystery that is drawing you, then. A puzzle, left half solved. Did you lay with this man?”

“Mother!” Dirthamen gasped in horror, cheeks flushing at the very idea she would ask. But she gives him that look, the one he’s spent an entire childhood under, and he sighs. “No, well, yes, but we were interrupted.”

“So you wish you had.”

“Yes.” He hadn't realized the truth of that, till she asked. He feels the weight of his petal necklace, a foolish lovers token. Struggles not to touch it.

“He draws your eye, sets your heart beating?” A claw tipped glove tapped at her mouth. “Or does he make you feel calm, safe?”

“We hardly, no… well.” He thinks back to their quick friendship. How easy it was. His eyes being drawn to his features.

“You are different then your brother, Dirthamen, and your confusion over the matters is from comparing yourself to Falon'Din in this regard.”

His mother’s words make sense, as they often do for those who know how to listen. His confusion shifts into clarity as he adjusts his perspective. Falon'Din desires are easy, carefree. But maybe for him, there is some spark that is needed before a fire can burn.

“Thank you, Mother. I am not any closer to finding him, but at least now… I know now that I want to.” A smile finally draws at his lips before he kisses his mother on the cheek. 

“Oh, I am sure I could be of some use in that regard too, but not yet. I’ll let you two young people figure it out on your own.”

“But how can I find him..." He finally allows himself to touch the petals at his throat. The only thing he had of his Wolf.

"That, little one, I am sure is an answer you already have. You just have to make it reveal itself to you." Another kiss, another laugh, and her son is gone in a whirl of robe and red hair. He does not see Mythal's mischievous grin as he walks away.

 

~*~*~

Dirthamen sets aside a time to gather his clues in the privacy of his chambers. The students and teachers of his beloved city are in their homes for the evening, the library in the hands of the spirits. His people are kinder than those out in the empire, only a smile or a gentle laugh instead of pressing him for details. You are happier, a priest had mentioned, a lightness in your step. And now that he has spoken to his mother, he understands why.

He slips into a thinner robe that falls to his knees as he sits on the edge of a lounge, able to stand to search out a book if need be. The petals appear to be of the anemone flower judging by its shape and color. Years of childhood spent in his mother’s gardens have led to gardens on nearly every free space in his city not dedicated to something else. But it is not just his own learning. The flowers had a purpose that night at the party, a way to expression intention without words

The flower had a meaning of investigation and anticipation, among others. It was clear that the man had experience. The mere memory of his Wolf's "experience" made him flush even now. He rubbed the little magic orb that kept the petals safe as he continued to think. His manner and way of speech indicated education and learning similar to his own. If he hadn't been taught, then he had sought knowledge out.

The outfit had been carefully chosen, just had everyone's had. Each guest hoping to hide themselves yet catch the eye. Yes... that was it. Where each had tried to dress in the richest they could afford, his Wolf was different. Leathers and colors chosen more for their function than their expense. There was a wild nature to the clothing, to his Wolf. Was that not why Dirthamen had given him that name to fill his empty mouth? Yet it wasn't much of a clue to go on... The whole point of the disguise is that a partner wouldn't figure it out right away. That was why he had not dressed reminiscent of a raven beyond his earrings. It would have been too telling...

Dirthamen can feel it coiling right there on the tip of his tongue. His Wolf, his Wolf. The way his eyes had hidden something behind the mask, as if enjoying some trick no one had yet noticed. The claws of his costume like... like... A frustrated sigh escaped the keeper of secrets. Why must it be like this? This desire, this want, flooding his mind. Or, rather, flooding his body. Where he should be slipping each clue into place, he instead finds his hand dragging along his leg through the thin fabric. Knuckles stiff so his nails drag along the skin. He shivers as he closes his eyes, recalling the way his Wolf's hands felt on his body. Voice whispering in his ear each promise of what he wished to do. Dirthamen parted his lips and mouthed the flower charm, pretending it was his Wolf's mouth. He closes his eyes against the low firelight.

He lays back and moves his legs apart, feet braced against the cushions. His robe falls open and he takes himself to hand. “Fe-fen-orain..” It's never been like this, this want from the memories of his Wolf's hands, his mouth. His magic reaches out, missing the comfortable alignment; the same as his skin is hungry for his touch. He hears him, in his mind, what he would say if he were here.

“Ma Da'daris.”

He bites his knuckle, his necklace gleaming between his fingers. Hearing his voice again makes his cock twitch in his hand. He tries to catch his breath and prolong this feeling of closeness and pleasure, even as his body aches to complete it.

“I...your touch, fen'orain.” He squirms, baring himself further. “P-please, I need..!”

His hand drops lower to the base of his cock, thumb stroking. He wants to open himself, like the Wolf had said. It is frightening, exciting, to think about what it means.

“Do you remember, listening to my voice, following it to pleasure? Be good for me. Do as I say, and you'll be rewarded. Use oil to ease the friction from your movement. That's right. Move slower for me.”

A moments focus, and oil with the faint scent of lavender falls into his hands. He spills it over his hands, over his cock. His toes curl, back arches as the feel of his hand on himself changes.

“You would be so eager. Would you let me tease you like this, until the burning is greater than pride, then beg me to let you have release? Or would you be sweet, asking for it, showing with your body how good you can be? Do you long to be opened up on my fingers, ma'daris? Place one there now, but be patient. Rub, give yourself a moment of anticipation. Make yourself wait, want." His Fen'orain's voice is growing more urgent, breathy.

It takes him a moment to work up the nerve. There is a hitch in his breath as he touches the skin there, a place that's never been entered. For a brief moment it seems like he might move on his own, to enter himself, but some will manages stays his hand. He gives a moan of displeasure, toes digging into the cushion.

"Good, so good. Perfect." He wants to touch, to reach out, but resists. "Do you want it? You do. Can you feel yourself, tight and closed? Harder, now, press. Stop. Pull away. Again. Just the slightest bit. Relax, let the muscles relax, sweet. Again. Press further. Feel with the tip of your finger, explore."

He follows every instruction as if his hands aren't his own, automatic and obedient. It feels like someone else touching him. He tucks his head against his shoulder, panting.

 

When he tenses, when the muscles resists, he draws back. Tries to breathe. Moves the fingers of his other hand over his cock. He wants to give in, to surrender and give himself pleasure.

"Does it still feel good? Talk to me, tell me. Tell me what you want."

"Strange. Like I shouldn't... yet I should. You voice, Fen’orain, that is what...I-I want.”

His voice is raw already from gasping breathes turning to moans. His movements are slow, working a finger in a little bit further each pass. He wants. Wants!

"Can you take a little pain for me, flower? Make sure you have enough oil, now push further, as far as you can. Crook your finger and you'll find your reward. It may take some looking. Keep stroking. Don't stop."

The orders are curt, harsh. But it is what he wants. It's all he can do to keep his desperation at bay. More oil drizzled on his fingers as he follows instructions. His muscles are taunt with the strain of keeping still, of bowing to pleasure. Deeper in, seeking. An edge between pain and pleasure, unable to keep still anymore.

“Fen!” Shock strings along his body. It is good, too good, he wants to touch again but it will be agony but he wants even that.

"Yes. Mmm, yes that's it. Look at you. Calling out my name. Don't stop, keep going. I want to see you lost in desire. Gasp, scream and beg." His cock hurts, it’s so hard. "Do it. Now. More."

"Fen'orain, please!" Desire curls in his magic as he arches again. He dares to move a little bit quicker now. Dares to touch that place deep inside him, again. "P-please, I can’t!" His gasps climb in desperation. He can't, so close but he can't, let me please.

"Void take me anyway. Don't stop. Come. Now."

His head arches back, mouth open in surprise as much as pleasure. It's too much. That voice, commanding or pleading, tips him over. There is a void in his mind, no thoughts or questions, as he spills over the hand on his stomach. His body has trapped his finger inside, so all he can do is keep pressing against that place. He sobs, repeating Da'daris like a precious mantra.

Solas wakes, shaking like a leaf with need, Fen'orain still echoing in his ears. He lays back, catching his breath. What was that? His sheets are sticky with sweat and spend.

This preoccupation is getting to be a persistent problem. The weeks following the party had been a flurry of activity for his network. Papers sent, blackmail planned, ambushes set, bribes paid, all while those in power gossip near listening ears. Yet when he should be thinking of ways to court advantage, he thinks of braided red hair and lilac flowers. He does his best to maintain his veneer as a loyal, if radical, member of the court, and keeps a small potted flower on his desk.

It is not difficult to surmise who his lover had been. Everyone has been talking of how Dirthamen had stolen the show at his brother’s party by dancing. What he finds hard to reconcile is that image with the one he saw of a shy but curious man hiding behind the refreshment table trying to avoid notice. He puts that image together with what he knows of Falon'Din's shadow, and can see where they fit. See where they don't. The puzzle only makes it that much harder to get him out of his mind. Out of his late night dreams. He could easily picture Dirthamen, now, not covered in veils but bound by them, pale skin flushed red from his hands, mouth, and desire.

And...why not? It could be advantageous to court the Keeper of Secrets. His inexperience would make it simple, and he would gain access to all of his power and resources. On the other hand, he would be at risk of making more enemies among the Evanarus and the fallout would be unpredictable were things to go wrong. Mythal would have to be handled delicately, regardless. Perhaps a test is what he needs.

Agents are put to work to cover a short absence and a letter is sent. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is artwork for the chapter by Gnomeicecream over at her tumblr :D 
> 
> lineart: http://gnomeicecream.tumblr.com/post/144336948572/now-with-inked-in-lines-i-present-solas-getting  
> colored: http://gnomeicecream.tumblr.com/post/146808581352/decided-to-throw-some-quick-and-dirty-color-on

Fear changes shape as he alights on the rookery tower, a letter clutched in a talon that becomes a leathery hand. Deceit looks up from his mirror covered nest clicking his beak with interest, and flies to his shoulder. Down a spiral stair and past a open sitting room he pushes open an unlocked door. The two bird spirits exchange a look despite the metal mask that covers their faces.

“The Master is still abed. Cliff before the jump, a clear canvas taking the first stroke.” Fear states.

“The Master has been away in dreams. Hidden face, hidden away, paths cut through flowers.” Deceit agrees.

“Up now, hear now, a letter from his mother.” Fear sets the letter on the table and begins clicking in his throat.

“No, not from the mother! Wants it to look like it was, but it has been sent by one, then another one, to one who has two loyalties. Sends it with Mythal's seal but has never seen her hand.”

Dirthamen opens his eyes, awake in time to catch the last part but not understand it. “What’s all this?”

“You have not gotten a letter. It is not from your mother.”

“Is that so? Thank you. Just leave it there.” Some minutes later he comes over to the desk, thumb running over the leather tie holding the letter shut. Curious. He holds it in one hand as he reads.

“Assassins in the temple? Illness in the mother? Oh, oh, no! Wolves in the garden! Prowl and stalk, find red rabbits.”

It is an invitation. To one of his mother’s abandoned temples with...murals. In the mountains, by the lake. Signed “Your wolf, Fen'orain.” It is full of heated promises. He has been as consumed with thoughts of him as he had been. There are both lilac and anemone petals in the envelope. He has already made up his mind to go.

Just as quickly as his heart had begun to flutter it stopped. How had his Wolf known who he was? Had he been there, unseen, at his dance? What would he have thought at that display, giving to everyone what had passed privately between them. He wants a chance to explain. He has two days to decide, if he is to make the rendezvous at the specified time.

“Who is the wolf?” Both Fear and Deceit intone together as Dirthamen wonders. But he is the Keeper of Secrets, the One to Whom Knowledge Unfurls. His hair slips loose of its braid as he calls upon his magic to make images appear in the air. His Fen'orain's wolf mask, the wild leathers of his costume, but crafted and painted with a talented hand. The style is similar to the murals referenced in the letter.

He remembers his laugh when he had slipped, called him Wolf. To think, he had been thinking of how close he had come to guessing his own secrets, when he had also stumbled so close to his.

“Tell me, there is only one wolf of note among our number, is there not?”

“Clarity.”

“Surety.”

“Fen'Harel...” He laughs, quick and breathless. His resolve is unshaken. “There is something that requires my presence shortly. Don't let anyone know that I have gone.”

~*~*~

Solas arrives early to prepare. The round, pillared pavilion overlooks a lake and the mountains to the west. A couch is set in the middle, pillows are thrown all over the floor, and drapery is hung to waft lazily in the cool breeze. He sets a small chest near the couch and puts up a few candles....takes them down. Changes the color of the drapes...changes them again. Paces. Lounges on the couch. No, too casual. Stands, leans on a pillar. Which hurts after a while. Takes his robe off. Takes his pants off. Puts his pants back on. Takes his pants back off. No, yes, pants? No pants. Kick the clothes under the couch. Finds them again, folds them neatly.

“Ridiculous.” The crisp water of the lake will help to focus his mind, and he has enough time. There is no need to be nervous. A wry scoff sounds from his mouth. Just one more noble to trip into bed. It will be fun, and then his fascination will end. He floats on the surface of the water, and time passes.

A wisp bubbles and buzzes by his ear to alert him that someone has crossed the first ward he placed. The light filtering down through the leaves is tinted gold and green with late afternoon. A change in the nearby magic accompanied by the sound of raven wings the only disturbance otherwise. Solas has no more time to second guess his choices as he returns to the shore and dons his mask. He checks over his preparations one more time anyway. Chest of diversions, ropes and rings in the pillars, setting, lights; he is ready. He turns, hands clasped behind him, body unashamedly displayed. “Da'daris. I suspect you have questions."

The footsteps behind on old bark and stones him tell of the slow approach. Hesitant. A hand raises to fiddle with the cowl of the cloak that hides him. As if he wonders if he should continue to hide his face. "How... how did you know it was me? When I thought to return... I could not find you.” His voice is soft. And it is many things. Surprised. Lingering. Worried. Masking a breathless eagerness.

Solas turns, letting the last glimmers of sunset silhouette the contours of his bare body. “You have been the talk of the nobility for some time. There could only be so many beautiful and wickedly talented dancers at the party. I apologize for leaving. I was unable to stay after my meeting concluded.” He smiles under his mask, the same from that night.

The hand toying with removing his hood leaves it to curl over his mouth. He seems to be able to focus on the elf's face... Mostly. "I do not blame you. My brother is..." A swallow. No. He will not allow Falon'Din to interfere again. "The first dance was for you. The second? For no one." He reached out, softly touching the damp skin with his fingertips. As if assuring himself this time he is real. Moving from chest to stroke over his neck, soft as a butterfly's wing. The fingers brush a breath away from the mask, down along the strong jawline. “Can I not see you, Fen'orain?”

"That would be…there are considerations. For us both. Forgive me. Perhaps, in time." Solas gently moves Dirthamen's hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Welcome. I'm glad you came. Ah, I had thought you might enjoy a more secluded environment, where we might get to know each other more." With a small bow he offers a seat on the couch. Water is still dripping from the ends of his hair.

For a moment the eyes are wide, reflective, as if the idea he can't see his Wolf's face has twisted inside him. Then a quick smile, biting his lip to keep a laugh inside. The look Dirthamen gives betrays the wish to tease his Wolf, “But it is without consequence to arrange my seduction in my own mother’s garden?” He entwines his fingers with the hand that guides him as he takes the offered seat and finally pushes back the hood of his cloak. As it falls the embroidered feathers remain still. Then they swift and flutter. Twisting and curling upwards, disappearing into two raven feather earrings suddenly at his ears. There is no other jewelry save for the glass containing the charmed petals at the base of his throat. The disappearance of the cloak has also left a small covered bundle in his lap that one hand slowly fingers. Bright eyes peeking through red lashes. "When I saw the messages was from you I... I brought you something."

“Ma'daris-I… I didn't think to bring a gift for you. I am humbled by your consideration." He sits next to him, drawing close. Smiling with genuine pleasure, both at the mastery of enchantment displayed and the gift. “Would you take a kiss in exchange?”

"Knowing I would see you again would have been enough," Dirthamen closed the distance. A hand lightly braced on the elf's bare thigh though he does not need it. His words warm traces over his Wolf's mouth. "I would be rude to refuse."

Solas draws in an unsteady breath, thrilling in the vulnerability of Dirthamen's fully clothed body leaning over his naked one. He presses softly forward, letting the kiss develop slowly. His hand follows the line of Dirthamen's arm up from his thigh to his elbow, shoulder, up his cheek with the backs of his fingers. Finally threading into his long hair. The touch of his hair is soft yet not completely normal. It is warm with ambient magic, fluttering like cloth over a flame and very fine.

Both make needy sounds into each other's mouth as the kiss becomes heated, pressing and hungry. Dirthamen slips over his lap to kneel over him and buries his hands in damp hair. He should be cautious but each touch from his Wolf only makes him want to touch him in return. A thought burns in the back of his mind. That this is Fen'Harel, all but confirmed by his hesitation to reveal himself earlier. He should be cautious... but he can't. 

The masked man lets his head fall back into that grip, reveling in it, with mouth open and breath quick. "I gave you a lesson, the last time we were like this. Show me that you remember."

One hand stays in the dark hair, massaging at the base of his skull in tiny motions. The other drops, tracing its own patterns, before spreading along his spine in between the shoulder blades. Dirthamen's head dips, tracing over shoulder and neck with the barest touch of his lips. Nuzzling for long moments before pressing in a kiss. He lingers, ghosting touches and warm lingering kisses.

Solas tenses and relaxes between each tease, anticipation rising then thwarted but the simple touch feels good. His skin thrills under it, devoid of contact for so long. The first bite is a surprise. He sucks in a breath.

“Ah, good, Dirthamen, that’s good, please.”

He hums a pleased note and kisses the bite before covering it with his mouth and sucking gently. It’s good to hear it, just as it was good to hear Da'daris, but there is a power in hearing his name called in such a way. His hands begin to wander, a pressed palm in one direction, trailing nails in the other. He varies between gentle kisses and sharp teeth.

Solas feels dizzy from arousal building far too quickly. He wants to hide his face, muffle his moans. He tries to think of something clever to take back control. But then another bite comes. And another. Or nails rake up his back. He presses his face into his shoulder. “Wait; in the chest. There is...more.”

Dirthamen allows mercy for the moment. He likes the press of him in his shoulder, unconsciously nuzzles his Wolf. They breathe together. He rests a hand on his chest to feel the movement and the heartbeat underneath. For a moment it seems like Dirthamen will tease him, ask him which chest he could mean. With one more deep breath, he moves off him with care to stand on unsteady legs that are quickly hidden with his settling robe. Solas falls back onto the couch with one arm flung over his eyes as he tries to find his composure.

Opening the chest, the bright eyes grow wide with surprise, “Fen'orain...”

“I thought you might enjoy some tools to help you learn of pleasure.” He peeks out from under his arm with a smile. “Some of it may seem intimidating or strange, and there is certainly too many to try in one night. Anything you want to do, to know, I will accommodate.” He presses down on his love bites, rubbing down his neck, chest. Fingers digging in to let him feel it.

Dirthamen bites his lip again as he looks over what is available and imagines his Fen'orain explaining each one to him. He is nothing if not an eager student. It is an area of knowledge that he almost completely lacks. And for a moment he wants to know it all. But the bright eyes return to his Wolf. To the hands pressing into the marks he left. Looks to his bare and full cock. And for once, seeking knowledge for the someone else's sake. "Tell me, my Wolf. Tell me of a few of them. And how I would use them to please you."

Wolf? Solas feels a moment of disquiet as he wonders if he knows, but dismisses it as unlikely. He would not be here if he knew who he was. “Of course.” He gestures with his hands as he speaks. “That one, long and slender, is used to prepare the body and to tease. The flare at the base allows it to be left inside perhaps allowing one's attention to wander to other matters. The thick, round and flexible one has a similar purpose but requires some time to work the body up to the task of accepting it. Its flexibility lets it to be used with much greater speed and force.” His voice going to gravel with imagination. “Hmm, those small rings fit over the nipples. Pull the chain to tighten. Push the pin on the side to lock.”

A formless sound comes out of Dirthamen's mouth. So sudden that for a moment the red haired elf covered his mouth in surprise. He ducks his head as the possibilities lay themselves out before him. How much could his Fen'orain take? How much could he take, watching him come apart? He takes two and a vial of oil, leaving the largest toy for his Wolf's promise of a next time. He understands now. How his Wolf must have felt watching another in their pleasure. Knowing that he was the one who caused it. His heart is buzzing in his throat that Dirthamen had to take a moment to dampen it. He stands and makes a slow return. Eyes locked.

He sits gracefully on the edge of the couch, one leg bent under him. Long fingers splay over his Wolf's muscled chest, feeling the breath and heartbeat. He gestures with the clamps, “Do I need to oil these beforehand, so they don't chaff?”

“No, that would make them lose their grip. But first one needs to stimulate each nipple to make it rigid enough to be snared. Shall I, Da'daris, or would you like to try?” He drifts his hand over the one on his chest, moving slowly.

Half lidded bright eyes follow the movement, “One side perhaps? So I may watch and imitate?”

“Then, like this. Go slowly at first. If you apply to much pressure, too much sensation, it will bring pain rather than pleasure.” He takes his nipple between two knuckles. Dirthamen mirrors him. “Just enough grip to pull, bring it out. Let up slowly, let it slide down and out. Repeat, slowly. Repeat, increasing pressure. Your fingertips now, circle around. The sensation is a tease now that the nerves have awoken. Pinch between thumb and forefinger. Now is good for harder. Pull, twist, pinch. Ah, that, is good. Yes, like that. Ah! Enough to put the clamps on. If you wish it."

Dirthamen's ears are tuned to the voice that once instructed him in his own pleasure. Nipples harden under his fingers just as his Wolf had said. He does want to put the clamps on. But not yet. He knocks his Wolf's hand away and gently applies pressure with both of his. He twists and pulls, and presses his mouth back to his throat.

Solas bites his lip, holding his breath to fight against making a sound. But his back arches, pushing into the touch, and eventually he is forced to gasp in a breath. “Daris! You are going to kill me. Oh, but only if you stop. Feels so much better, like that, ple-” He cuts off and turns his face away into the pillows.

Soft shushing sounds accompany soothing motions as he kisses the shell of his ear once, twice. “I would not harm you, Fen'orain. I will take care of you.” Dirthamen carefully slips each clamp on watching for any indication he had done it wrong. That he had caused hurt instead of pleasure. Instead he sees surprise.

Such sweet promises were not what Solas had expected. He doesn't know how to respond. His silence grows, punctuated by his own harsh breathing. Dirthamen leans in, forehead to forehead, and cradles his cheek.

“Are you alright, fen'orain?” He whispers his worry. He lingers, waits, before touching again. Lays a thumb over a decorated nipple. Not pressing. Not twisting. Just warmth and the feel of his thumb.

“Yes, it’s good.” Solas tilts his head back to brush their mouths together. And again. Licks his lip, gives it a small nip. “You're being good to me, ma'daris.” He turns his head to press a kiss into the hand that touches his cheek.

The relief in Dirthamen is immediate. A breathless laugh. A quick smile. He deepens the kiss and presses his body against his. Hair slips over his shoulder, brushing against the decorated nipples. Dirthamen's fingers quickly follow, wanting to see more of that reaction. He turns Solas' face back to chase more kisses.

"There are," licking, open mouthed kiss, "certain forms in," pushing his tongue into Dirthamen's mouth, slotting closer together and pulling back, "some kinds of play." He grabs two handfuls of hair, pulling him in for a series of smaller, quick kisses. "I could put my pleasure at your command. I want...to...give that to you, da'daris?" The last asked with an uncharacteristic hesitation.

Dirthamen stills. Pulls back to look at him more fully. Shock is evident across his face. To be offered something like this. He swallows. He reaches for his Wolf's hand, gripping tightly. “If I agree...accept. You must promise me that if I hurt you, you will tell me to stop. Or if I fumble and it is not something you enjoy…”

"Not all pain is unwanted. May I suggest that I inform you if it grows beyond baring? A word, that when spoken can mean a halt? I... It, here, hurts, but I want it." He reaches for the small chain connecting the clamps, pulls it. Let’s Dirthamen see the rough pull at his flesh but also the dilation of his eyes, the harshness of his breath, the sheen of sweet on his skin; signs of his enjoyment. "If it is not something you are comfortable with, we can go on as we were."

"That it is something that you want is all I ask..." The words are said too quickly, too emphasized, for it to be innocent concern. Dirthamen has seen something that pains him; some experience best not thought of now. The red haired elf leaned closer and his bright eyes are saturated with honey color. "Pick a word now, Fen'orain." He commands. There is almost no trace of hesitancy. A finger hooks around the chain and holds it at the point between pain and pleasure.

Solas files the small slip away for later. For now, he grits his teeth with eyes closed, hands bunched tight in loose red hair. The tease brings out anticipation of more. "Anemone. My word."

"Perfect, my fen'orain, my Wolf." Dirthamen rewards him with a kiss then a series that trail up his jaw and down his neck. A lingering kiss to the breast bone beneath his skin. He looks up, sharp and playful through his lashes. "You will not move when I touch you." 

“Yes. Daris.” He brings his resolve to bare, settling his hands on the edges of the couch. He won't fail at his first task. He'll be taken care of if he can be good.

It somehow becomes a game. Tugging on the chain in the middle, or closer to an individual clamp. Just as he recovers from that a kiss, a lick, a scrapping of teeth. And the warmth of it all, settling deep in his belly, is how his Wolf likes it.

The gentle teasing brings out moans Solas no longer tries to stifle. His cock is hard, leaking precum against his belly, becoming a deep flushed color but he won't, not until he's told he can. But he wants. His flower has taken to his game with more skill then he would have dared to hope.

Dirthamen murmurs soft words of pleasure and praise, reveling in the sounds that he makes. The kisses and touches continue lower until just below the belly button. A pause as he shifts for better access. Hair, fabric, then finally a hand trails over the hard cock. And there it stays, a touch that cups him, leans just a little breath of weight into it, pressing it towards his belly. Bright eyes watching him. There is a pop of a bottle being opened and oil scents the air.

“Please.” The urge to move has to be fought at every touch, resulting in an aborted sort of continuous writhing. His hands raise, once, motions to grab and guide but he restrains himself. Instead gripping a long trailing strand of red hair. "D-Do you, what are you, do you know...Fehendis. Please! Touch me. More. Harder. I want... Please."

Dirthamen takes a small measure of pity and removes his hand to his bare thigh. To the skin over the hip bone. It strokes, soothingly instead. "Can you make it, fen'orain? Do you have the restraint to wait just a little longer?" His voice is deeper. More primal.

There is a touch between his Wolf's legs and the sound of something dropping to the couch. A slick finger ghosts over the skin of his entrance. “Will it be easier, my wolf, to let you come now? To prepare you while your body is soft and pliable from completion? Or will you wait for my word I touch you?”

The kindness takes him by surprise, again, slipping past defenses he hadn't even thought to erect. But paired with the slight hint of danger, its exquisite. The urge to please drowns out his own wants, his thoughts slipping further away. “Daris, y-yes. For you. I can." He grips each of his wrists, bringing both behind his head. He bends his knees and spreads his legs, making himself open, vulnerable, available.

Dirthamen hums happily and rewards him by rubbing his finger back and forth over the ring of muscle. He watches closely as he pushes against it and remembers all the instructions his Wolf taught him. He likes how the position pushes his Wolf's chest out a little, presenting the clamped nipples like a new present. He checks them over, touching to give stimulation but also reassurance of safety. "I thought it strange, when first we met, how you described me so prettily. But I can see you did not lie. You are beautiful."

"You're too kind, Daris. Thank you." Solas gnaws his lower lip, then licks it as he pants. This teasing is so gentle, soft as it builds but his mind is whiting out. The pain in his chest doubles back into pleasure, and he wants more, to be taken. The slide of one finger is perfect, it’s been so long since a hand other than his own has done this. He pushes down, just a bit, chasing after the sensations of stretching and burning.

The finger takes him in long strokes, timed with the movements of his hips. Dirthamen kisses the tortured lower lip as the hand at his chest trails down to rest over the belly near the pelvis. The fingertips pet, words soft and encouraging, as the finger is removed. The scent of oil again. Then returning, a second finger now tentatively pressing in. "There, fen'orain. Just a little bit more."

"I can take it, give it to me, please. Push my limits, Daris, I'll be sweet for you, please, harder, rougher. I-I can't, this..!" The gentle touches aren't too soft to ignore, but not hard enough to ground him back in his body. He needs more, he is going to come, but he can't, not yet, not yet, its just not enough yet, its torture but it’s so good. "If my hands were bound, just like this, oh, I could thrash and show you with my body what you're doing to me, Daris."

A sharp nip comes at the hollow of his throat. "Not yet, fen'orain. I have seen your ropes secreted away. But not yet." But Dirthamen does comply in a way. His hands circle around his Wolf's wrist, in an almost bruising grip. Manipulating them so he can arch the quivering body a little bit more. The movements are harder, rougher. Eyes still watching, Dirthamen's face flushes as red as his hair.

He shudders, conflicting sensations of appreciation of being controlled warring with, but being fed by being denied. He tests the strength of the grip on his wrists, and being long past pride, freely whimpers when they hold firm.

Then Dirthamen stops again. Removes his fingers with little warning. Whatever time there might have been to protest is gone as he licks the head of his cock. He distracts him there: licks, nuzzles, breath. It takes a bit of finesse but he manages to slicken the smaller toy with the flared base, pulling away from the aching cock as he presses it against the entrance. "Do you want it, my Wolf?"

He tosses his head back to shout. He is shaking, with sweat dripping down his body. And another whimper, as his cock is enveloped in warm heat, but only a tease. "Please, please, please, please, yes. Yes, please, Daris."

"Yes. Let me hear you." Dirthamen croons softly. He kisses what he can reach, the position a bit awkward with his arms so stretched. Chasing rivets of sweat with his tongue. Anything to keep him like this until he feels that he is ready, that he is stretched until the toy moves with more ease. Then a rush of magic. A force remaining in place to hold down his arms when his restraining hands are removed. "Stay like that," a command. A pause to see if he will rebel. He wraps an arm around a thigh, holding him open, and takes his cock into his mouth. He bobs with more enthusiasm then skill with his attention split on moving the toy into him, using it to fuck him. He hopes it is what the man is asking for, has been begging for.

And it is. "DARIS!" It's electric, so fast he can't brace himself. His foot scrambles on unsteady purchase. He makes good on his promise, tossing and turning in the grip of Dirthamen's magic, every breath released on a shout, nonsense spilling from his lips. "I, I can't, going to come, I can't, oh, please, I need to come Daris please that, there, please!"

Dirthamen realizes he could listen to his cries all day but it’s hard for him as well. His mind is a muddle of sensations barging against every sense. For a moment it seems he will be cruel. Continuing. Then he pulls back, lips wet and slightly swollen. Hand pressing the toy deeper within him with every now stroke. "Come."

His back arches as he holds one last breath, mouth open but silent. Then a shudder, taking his whole body, and again, again, and finally he screams, muscles unlocking as his cock pours out come up his stomach, over his chest, onto the clamps and chain. He feels like a storm cloud, both floating and flickering with strikes of lightning. He gasps weakly for breath as he sags back down into the couch, wrung out and spent. "D..Daris."

Dirthamen sags to the side, taking his captive leg with him. They lay pressed together, both trembling and breathing heavily. He whimpers and buries his face against the darker skin. Magic flutters and darts around them like a butterflies. "You... I..." Dirthamen finally looks up. He seems dazed, cheeks flush with a glow. "I could... I felt you..."

Solas nods, nudging a little with his legs. "G-give me a moment. I'll take care of you, but lay with me for just… Ah." He turns his face into his arm, ostensibly to wipe away a drop of sweat. He didn't mean to sound so needy. "I can return the favor, once you let me up."

Dirthamen shuffles so he is fully on the couch, head laying on his Wolf's chest. His robes are halfway up his thighs, but even in the folds a damp patch is evident. He is red all the way up his ears with his arms tight to his chest. It's evident now that he doesn't need assistance, just regain his mind from the powerful aftermath. "I... I already..."

"Ah." He presses a kiss behind his ear, pulling up close. With a slightly smug smile in his voice, he says "I see that these games are to your liking, my sweet, unplucked flower. So innocent and coy with your blushes, but sultry when applying yourself." With a chuckle he gives more soft kisses without direction, hoping his teasing is taken as it is intended. His flower does in fact have a tender heart, and it would not to do bruise it.

He would blush at the words but his blood is still returning from elsewhere. How can he put into words the rush he felt to have been on the commanding side? Or the strange thought now that he wants his Wolf back in his mouth, be it his cock or his chest. He turns to face the other man. A hand touching his chest near the clamps. "Should we take these off for now?" Dirthamen tried to look elsewhere but it is hard not to.

"Yes, they were very good, but… I'm afraid if they are left on much longer I will go numb. Gently, please. Rub, softly, once they are off to ease the sting?" He pulls a garment up from where he had hidden it earlier, wiping off his stomach and chest, then lets it fall back to the floor.

There's a little bit of a smile as he watches his Wolf clean himself. "I never did find my underwear from last time..." a red eyebrow is raised coyly. At least, that is the attempt. There is too much play in his bright eyes. But he gives great care with removing the clamps. The sweaty, sticky skin pulls off slowly from one, then the other. He rubs gently, using magic to warm his fingers. A chaste kiss, and a second, are placed on them as well. It's clear that the particular toy was... fascinating.

Solas hisses with each removal, then sighs with relief. He smiles with satisfaction that his plan has thus far met with success. Dirthamen is naturally curious and it is easy to ensnare his attention with new experiences. It seems like an opportune moment to push for information. "I must have mistaken them for my own, Dirthamen. I have been wearing them thoughtlessly. Shall I go without as punishment, and think of you? Or are you not as given to cruelty as your brother?"

The animation leaves Dirthamen's face. His hands go still. He casts about for a witty answer, something his Wolf will enjoy. He can't. It sticks in his throat, so he looks away, hands now clutching each other in his lap. How can he explain all of his experiences, the compromises, the joys that rage against despair that the court seems to enjoy?

"I have upset you. I apologize." He pulls him back into his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I should not have spoken so carelessly of my betters. We are alone but were anyone to hear, it would go poorly for us both. Less, perhaps, for you with the protection of your status, but for others...But I said I would not speak of it. Come, that robe must be becoming uncomfortable. Let me help you out of it."

"I did not mean to... sour... the mood. It's just..." He touches his face where the mask does not cover it. Touch soft and tender, just like the openness of his face. Whatever walls and masks Dirthamen may have with Falon'Din, they do not exist with the man before him. If anyone else were to see it... "I could not bear it if you were hurt..." A flush creeps back into his cheeks as a laugh brings a little bit of sparkle back into his eyes. "I must be a rather poor partner to be so derailed."

"To the contrary! I have been thoroughly satisfied. I shall continue to place myself in your care." He laughs softly, nipping at his fingertips. "Speaking of, ma'daris. I have noticed you have left one of the toys in place. Do you have no intention of removing it? Or is it there to keep me in anticipation of your further plans?"

It is now a slow smile that takes Dirthamen's lips. Solas might be able to recognize this smile of his, one delighted at a secret playing just underneath. He touches the end of the toy, just enough pressure to move it. "I will show you, fen'orain. But I do believe I am over dressed, and I recall a promise to undress me..."

"I would never be so remiss as to disappoint you, my flower." He shifts, raising up to his knees, then places both hands on Dirthamen's bare thighs, rubbing his thumbs in circles. His hands drift slowly higher, his circles widening, pressing more firmly, till he is teasing the junction of his thigh. Knuckles brushing over the damp fabric of his, as of yet, unpurloined undergarments. "Lift your hips for me, my sweet?" As he draws them down, he is thinking of where he can stash them out of sight without being caught. Under the couch, in his own clothes. He leans down to distract Dirthamen with a kiss, and performs his slight of hand.

Dirthamen is thoroughly distracted. He tries to keep his body still at the touches. And distracts himself by deepening the kiss. Wrapping his arms around his Wolf's neck to draw him closer. There is the shorter yet heavier colored over robe, and the softer and lighter white under-robe clinging to his frame. There is a tug of a strand of dark hair when it seems the naked elf is taking too long. A chuckle swallowed by their joined mouths.

He slowly works open a buckle here, a knot there, taking his time despite the slight admonishment. He lifts one robe up, off, but pets and strokes Dirthamen's through the other. Coming near its ties and toying with them, making as though to pull this one loose, then another. He laughs back, pressing kisses to his neck, trying to find the spot behind his ear that had such delightful results before.

Dirthamen whines even as he bares his neck more. If he wants to play... two can do it. He is almost halted when the wandering mouth finds the spot. A sharp intake of air. A snap of the hips. One hand curled up into the dark hair now and pressed it against the spot. More, again. The other hand toyed down the muscled back along the spine. An appreciative pause at the curved ass before dipping in between to grip the base of the toy.

He sucks a bruise there, x to mark the spot, and licks up his ear to nibble on the tip, then dragging his tongue back down again and biting. He lifts his head and an eyebrow as Dirthamen grabs hold of the toy, then with a playful smirk shifts away. "Was there something you wanted, my sweet? Ah, but I've become distracted from my task." He pulls the under-robe up, and swiftly off, leaving them both naked.

Strands of red hair seem almost purposeful in the way a few drape around him. A lovely contrast to his pale skin, turning rosy in places. Dirthamen seems almost displeased as his little distraction backfires, but releases his hold on the toy to trail down his Wolf's thigh. He takes hold of a hand and rises from the couch, gait as smooth and graceful as the day he danced, and leds him to the pillars. His hands reached out, gripping the hidden ropes loosely over his fingers. Twirls them lazily around until he suddenly pulls them taunt. "I can guess one could be restrained in several positions, with the placements of these... Shall I choose, Fen'orain?"

"I..Ahem. That is, I could give you several suggestions. Um." He stammers, caught off guard. That keeps happening. It’s dangerous, this game he is playing, with a man who he keeps failing to predict. "To what purpose do you wish me restrained, vhenan? To tease? To try another toy? To fuck?"

"You asked so nicely to tie your wrists not so long ago. I want to see, if you'll permit me." He shifts, hair moving with him. While it's mostly behaving at the moment, it's long enough to fall along his hips and thighs. "And I recall... certain words... about kneeling..." He leans closer to whisper in a pointed ear. "Kneeling and taking you in my mouth?"

He shivers, his mind conjuring some of his favorite fantasies that he had crafted while laying out his lure. His hands and ankles bound, held out between two pillars. Or both hands bound together above his head, leaving him free to thrust into a tight, willing mouth, but oh, it'd just be an illusion of control that could be shattered with a firm hand. Or behind his back, bound wrist to elbow, helpless on his knees, his face pressed into the pillows. "Tie my hands together, like this?" He puts both wrists together, offering them meekly. Want has banked some of his playful fire, but..."There is no telling what I might do where I to get them on you again."

Dirthamen takes each in hand and lays a kiss to the pulse of each wrist. He binds them, together, then seems to decide he’ll try in between the pillars. Arms overhead but feet bound as well so he can't move far. He steps back to admire him, stretched out like this, eyes taking in every inch of him. It is so very strange, the thought comes to him. While he is still coming to understand how one could gain pleasure from such things, his mind questions more why he draws pleasure in seeing his lover happy and enjoying himself. 

Then the body is his hands. The same petting touches of before. He starts with the arms. Fingertips massage into the muscles that are being used now. Down along the back, up the front to his chest. He ignores the beckoning mouth and neck, lips sealing on the nipples thrust out by the position. Careful in case they are still sensitive. Petting his sides as he lightly suckles.

He lets himself be bound pliantly, moving as directed. But already he is growing hard again, the toy inside him growing in his awareness. He tugs against the ropes tying up his hands, then harder again as they hold. He does it again once his feet are bound, testing his range. There is little he can do, and the knowledge sizzles in his blood. Then again with the sweet, soft touches! And then his mouth on his nipples! "Unn! Ah!"

Dirthamen chuckles in amusement, the motion vibrating through his mouth. His attention lingers there. Whenever he switches to the other, he blows against the now wet skin of the nipple he leaves. A little breath of fire, a little breath of ice. But leaning down to do so is hard to maintain so he slips lower. Slowly kneeling before him, hands on his hips, trailing kisses down his chest. He nuzzles the hardening cock, enjoying the feeling of it on his lips. A pink tongue slowly licks along its length, encouraging it to stand at attention. Once the head is full and flushed his attention focuses to it. Holding it at the base while his tongue dances circles around the tip. Pressing it against his lips, mouth barely open, as he looks up to his Wolf. How easy it would be for him to fuck his mouth…

Solas turns his head into his arm, muffling the sounds he is making there. But he shifts in place, squirms in delighted torment, already so sensitive from before that it takes no effort at all to build him up again. "Oh, oh, Daris, yes, that, is good. Let me, I want to…" he lets his body speak for him, giving one slow push forward, then slipping back, and forward again, giving him time to adjust, to accept or deny.

It takes Dirthamen a little bit time to adjust. How to move and tilt his head without harming either of them. When he fucks his mouth he holds still. Fingers pressing little patterns into his thighs. But other times he holds him still. Bobs his head as one hand curls around the rest of the cock he can't completely swallow yet. Or he does neither, mouth slipping off his cock. And fucks him with the toy instead.

His breathes grow shorter and shorter and he twists and pulls. He talks, his Daris likes it when he talks, he wants to be good. "Mmm, sweet, vhanan, I want to have you inside me. Fill me up like that toy can't, hot and slick, I'd just take it, and take it, darling, ah!" It’s easy, this time, to find that floating place, fall back into it, let go. No worries, just let the rope hold him, let his Daris keep hm. "Teach you to find the places that would make me howl and beg for you. You could wring me out, make me come, keep going till I grow hoarse from screams."

Dirthamen purrs at the words, his own cock stirring again. He lets the words wash over him as he licks at the head, lazily drawing the toy out before pushing it back him. Watching his fen'orain's face. Waiting to the perfect time to spring... his mouth comes up... And a cock ring comes down, palmed when his lover wasn’t looking. Dirthamen adjusts it, to make sure it isn't hurting him. "Not too tight?" He asks for good measure. There is a length of thinner rope, red as his hair, in his hands. He wraps it around the proud cock, as much decoration as it is binding. Down to his balls and up to the head, managing to tie a silken knot so that it rests at the slit.

Solas struggles, briefly, breathing in quick gasps, toes digging into the floor. "Oh, you are wicked." Already his cock is turning a deeper red, flushed and pulled down by the weight of the rope. He gives up his fruitless struggles after one final pull, unable to find relief. "I am not in pain. I remember my word. Give me more?"

"As you wish, fen'orain." Dirthamen breathes as he strokes exposed patches of the reddening cock with his fingertip. Whatever Solas thought he might do on his knees is whisked away as Dirthamen stands and leaves him. Slowly walking over to the box, sitting with one long leg crossed over the other as he explores the contents again. Then, with barely the flick of a finger he magics the toy inside his lover to fuck him slowly. "Will you tell me the purpose of more of your toys," he asks, already picking out a leather glove curiously.

There is no point in resisting so he lets his head fall forward, quiescently taking the teasing pleasure he is given. Every few moments he inhales with quickened breath as pleasure runs up and down his sensitized body. “That glove, it is to protect the hand when striking another. It and other materials there have a unique sensation when used to caress the skin. There are blindfolds, gags, earplugs to take away the senses, to make those that remain more acute.” He shifts in place, wanting to grind back, to thrust forward, gaining no reward from either attempt. “There are tools to give greater degrees of pain, floggers with soft tassels that merely bring a blush to the skin, whips to sting, or canes to deliver the strongest blows. But I would advise you not to try your hand at those without a skilled instructor. True damage could be done.”

"Oh..." The hesitation returns again. In a way, Dirthamen had hoped the toys would have another purpose he couldn't see. It makes him nervous in little ways. A thought of Falon'Din striking his fen'orain wants to play before his mind but he suppresses it. No. He takes a breath in and holds it. He won't be afraid. "Do... do you wish I would use one of them? The softer ones?" He doesn't want to deny his Wolf. It just might be impossible to do so. And he does not wish to disappoint him. The blindfold is in his hand. And the glove. The redhaired elf knows atleast he can control the strikes of his own arm.

"I would not be opposed to the use of the glove. The others can be left for another time. Ah, forgive my presumption. If you wish another time. Any of the sensory items would be welcome, though I would need an object to take the place of my watchword if you were to gag me." With a hint of humor, he adds, "Though I have a suspicion you may not care to silence my voice."

"I could not begin to understand what you imply..." The flush on his cheeks, however, reveals he does know. He places the rest of the toys back in the box and rises with the glove and blindfold in hand, his mass of hair swirling around his waist and legs. Dirthamen makes himself stand before his Wolf with the toys in hand. He is proud his voice only shook for the first few syllables, spoken into a tapered ear.

"I'm going to blindfold you. Then you are going to ask for each blow. Count them off for me as I strike. Then...describe it for me. If you go silent, I will stop." Calm yourself. There is no shame in learning nor in giving his lover what he asks for. Hopefully, his Wolf will understand.

Solas grits his teeth as a series of shudders wrack his body, his bound cock twitching and straining. He seems to know just what to say to take him apart. It is maddening. “I see insolence will not go unpunished. I, do you wish for a more respectful form of address for this game, ma'daris? Sir?”

"That will suffice for now." Dirthamen somehow manages to hide his fiddling as he tries to blindfold him properly without removing the mask. He manages, making sure there isn't a way for him to peek underneath it. He leans in slowly when he is done to steal a kiss, nipping at the lower lip as he draws back. He takes his time in moving behind him. Admiring. Touches up and down the back. Tracing the muscles, the spine. Already falling in love with the feel of him beneath his hands. His nails trace over the globes of his ass. Light, then firmer. Cupping them with both hands. Massaging them. At some point the glove goes on and the hand rests against him so he can feel. Waiting for his fen'orain to ask for the first blow.

The lack of sight makes him feel afraid, for a moment, as the helplessness of the ropes had not. Then he feels the first of the kisses and lets it anchor him, straining into his hands for every caress. He is able to relax again, letting the ropes hold him steady. The leather of the glove is slick and cool, where his hand had been soft and warm. He feels a stirring of bashfulness, to be made to ask for this so shamelessly. To be made to admit to wanting it. “Please, Sir.” He swallows, finds his mouth dry. “Would you please spank me?”

Dirthamen might have surprised even himself at the strength of the first blow. Not punishing or cruel, but also barely holding back. He draws his hand away, waiting. Watching the skin. Listening. He sounds a little breathless at it, as if his mind is wondering why he's doing this.

“AH!” Solas startles, not having anticipated his request being granted with such alacrity or force, and so not prepared to hold his voice. “One. The, from where you struck, it stings. The pain hasn't faded, but spread. Like ink in water. It…more, please? Strike me again?”

Dirthamen releases a soundless breath of relief. Hearing his lover affirm his actions gives him assurance to continue. He strikes but once each time. Each time he waits for his fen'orain to respond. To ask for the next strike. His ear is tuned to the way he speaks and how he describes, waiting for any indication that it's going too far. But in ways, Dirthamen moves to keep him unable to guess or anticipate. Sometimes he waits for several long moments after he finishes speaking. Others he barely waits until after the count or request for another.

“Ten! Sir, please!” He arches up, standing on his toes, braced against the next blow. “Fifteen! Good, so good, please, Sir, please, I want to come.” He is dragging in sobbing breathes, struggling in earnest, caught and helpless. “Twenty, Sir, twenty-one, Sir, please, touch me, please, fuck me!” Head thrown back, neck straining, sweat once more running down. “I, the plug, when you...makes me want you inside me instead! T..twen..twenty four..not yet, I can't, I..”

"I have you, fen'orain. I have you." Dirthamen kisses the back of his neck. Licks the sweat. Every now and then he shifts and it is his bare hand that strikes. Or the blow comes softly. Either hand lingering over the reddened flesh. At one point he stops entirely. The gloved hand braces against his Wolf's abdomen as he sinks to his knees. Kissing the smarting flesh. Lavishing it with his tongue. He magics his breath like that of fire or that of ice again. Blowing over it before he touches it with his fingertips. Pointedly avoiding the toy for now.

He sighs in relief, as the soft touches to abused flesh begin to draw him back into that blissful state of lightheaded surrender. The temperature changes sooth sore muscles, but still causes shivers to skitter up his nerves. The licking tongue is so good, soothing, taking the string away and leaving a dull spreading ache behind. He wants to be fucked so badly, it is an agony, but he is being good. His Sir will take care of him, if he waits, if he asks, “Please…”

Dirthamen slowly stands, but it is difficult with all the blood rushing places and standing so much before. His front presses flush against his lover's back. A mouth buries against the neck so easily within reach. Hands trail up the chest and presses him back against his body. He plays slowly at the nipples, gentle at first, remembering how they were before. He pushes up on his toes and back down in lazy rhythms, cock hard against Solas' ass.

The embrace is one of the best things he can remember feeling, but it gives him no satiation. He grinds back, but the angle is wrong, he can't, if he could just. Then Dirthamen has moved, and it is hard to force his trembling limbs to hold him. He lets his head fall back onto his shoulder, rolling to the side to make himself available. He makes pitiful little sounds as his nipples are played with again, letting the pleasure jolt his body as it will.

"Couch, or here?" He can't play at this any longer. Dirthamen won't be able to stand it. And Fen'orain looks close to losing the capability to stand. He braces a thigh in between his legs and leans his Wolf's weight back as much as he can. One hand reaching up to play at the bindings holding his wrists up.

He wants to say here, now, now, fuck me, but holds back. His Daris deserves better, silk and cushions under his knees. The ability to adjust and learn how to give and take pleasure without the limits standing would place on them. And, oh, but the image in his mind of him pressed face down in the pillows. Being made to take his lover’s cock as he begged. He would come, then, if he could. “Couch. I beg you, don't untie me completely. Let me have it a while longer.”

Another kiss is pressed into his neck. "As you wish, fen'orain." He removes the ropes that bound his arms to the pillars, but leaves the one lashing his wrists together in place. Realizing now he should have untied his ankles when he was down there before, Dirthamen cheats with the flick of a finger. Lowering the arms slowly to the front, he kisses and presses heat into the muscles held in that position so long. Carefully, with one arm on his back and the other on his wrists, he safely guides his lover back to the couch. He comes close to it, enough that his Wolf will know it's near, and there he waits. Which position to take, Dirthamen wonders. This at least he was able to look up. Over the arm? On their knees? Laying down? "Do you want me to choose, fen'orain? Which way I... take you?"

He is unsteady on his feet, but still, he leans into his flower far more than necessary, loath to give up skin contact. He turns in the direction of the voice, leaning forward slow until his mouth finds flesh. Searching with slow kisses until he can find his mouth. He almost hesitates to ask, but knows that his Daris wants him to tell him and has all night. “On my knees, please. It gives you the best leverage to take me as hard as you can. If that is what you wish.”

Dirthamen gives a happy moan akin to a purr at the decision. He takes his Wolf back in his arms, the front of their bodies pressing together. Languid, deep kisses as arms wrap around to keep him close. Finally, when they are heady and out of breath, a soft whisper. "As you wish~" He guides him forward closer to the couch. A soft tap to the knee to tell him when to raise it up and crawl forward. Hands help guide and balance him. Rearrange some of the pillows so he can brace on all fours, or three, if he wishes or with his face and chest braced in the pillows. "But a moment, fen'orain.." Dirthamen comforts with a lingering touch before he swiftly goes to find where the oil has gone.

Anticipation raises as he makes himself comfortable, hands in front on him, bracketing a pillow for his face. He stayed where he was put, wondering he is being watched for good behavior. He wants to thrust down, find relief in the pillows, but he won't. It’s not worth hearing that sweet voice soiled by disappointment. Waiting lets him feel the residual sting in his thighs, over his ass, savor the thought of how his hips will grind into them. Slap them again and again, how each thrust will sting and sing at once, and he is squirming now, panting. “Want you...”

A soft whine hums in Dirthamen's throat as he turns back to see how his Wolf has arranged himself. A hand reaches out to stroke over the lover back and presented ass. "If you could see how beautiful you look..." Why? How many times has he seen this before, when his brother brought someone without warning or when he was forced to attend one of his parties? It had never awakened anything before within him. But here, now, with his Wolf…

He contemplates for a moment how to proceed. The toy has been in him this entire time so he must be used to some intrusion. But will that be enough? He slowly moves the toy, pushing it forward and pulling more of it out each time until it is free. He gauges himself against the toy and his fingers before thrusting in at least two slicked fingers to feel him. A fogging mind won't do if he hurts him in the process.

He bites into the pillow, muffling the small breathy noises he makes as the toy rocks in him. He tries not to tense up, but it’s impossible, he wants it too much. But his tired body can't sustain it and he sinks back down pliantly. Only whimpers as two fingers are put in. “I can take it. I want it. Please. Just enough to make it slick please, want you, want you, please.” His cock is hanging and a line of pre come falling from the tip onto the couch. And he wants to come so badly. It’s only a matter of time before he begs with true desperation, he knows.

He might have entered him just then until he saw the drop of precum falling. A third finger pushes in, rougher, as his other finger rubs at the crown of the weeping cock. "Not yet, fen'orain~". The oil opens again and this time he slickens himself. Fingers withdraw, hands curl around his hips and thighs as Dirthamen arranges himself... Then a hot touch as the cock slides between his cheeks, over the loosened entrance. Or between his legs and the underside of the prettily tied member.

“Ah, please, aggh!” Unseen tears of desperation wet the blindfold as he bucks, caught between two unbearable pleasures. He thinks of his word, he could have what he wants, now if he just said his word. It’s a temptation for a moment, his breath caught, rocking into the hands on and in him. But no. He knows it will be worth it. He can hold out, it’s so good, it'll be so much better soon. “Please, please, please, fuck me, fill me, I will do anything for you, sweet, vhenan, pl..please, Ah! I'll be good, please~!”

"Alright, fen'orain, alright." He stops his teasing, pets the lower part of his spine as he positions himself again. "Forgive me; I am still learning. I have you." It surprises Dirthamen the amount of concentration it seems to take at first. Or rather self-control. Placing the head at the entrance is a new sensation. Something part of his instinct knows but his mind doesn’t. He goes slowly, letting both of them adjust to the change. But as slow as the redhead goes, the firmer his fingers grip at his Wolf's hips. The more he whimpers as he keeps himself from driving forward. The sudden feeling of being flush against the back of his legs, or his pelvis against his ass. Dirthamen stays there a moment, breathes, and moves his grip to the flesh he had been striking not too long ago.

“Yeeeesssss! Oh, you are magnificent, feels good, yes!” He spreads his knees further, making tiny rocking motions. Grinding against the hips cradling his, oil dripping down his thighs. He is still trapped, and its good, he wants more. To be held down, to feel him all against his body. “Want to suck your fingers, want you to pull my hair, want you to fuck me, want you, want you to let me come, stroke me, oh, yes.”

A soft breathless chuckle. A whisper of patience just under his tongue. Wondering how he could do all those right now and in this position. But it is there again, a buzzing fog taking over his too busy mind. Drawn out, sinking back in. Slow. Then quicker. Shifting his hands back to his legs. Trying to keep control. Trying to listen over the thumping of his own heart.

He grips his pillow with both of his bound hands, no longer sparing breath to form real words. Unintelligible pleas and murmurs punctuated by gasping breaths on each inward stroke. Its everything he wanted, just like that, fire and lighting in his veins. Ah, oops, that is in fact actual lightning, but he can't bring himself to care. Something elsewhere, and therefore unimportant, is burning. He simply redoubles his efforts to fuck himself to oblivion on the cock in him.

His body can't seem to decide on what to do with his hands. Grip. Leave slack. Move as the pace quickens as it does. A leg up on the couch to braces himself, to drive himself deeper. Laying his body along his Wolf's back. One arm wrapped around him and another braced underneath them to take some of the weight off him. Absorbing the lightning into his veins. Lights dancing and popping in explosions of color. So close, so close again...

He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to his lover’s ear. His body over him, touching him, and just that quickly he is back in that blissful place where nothing matters but the pleasure of the elf above him. He lifts his arms, hooking them around his neck, keeping him close, turning his body into a bow. “Lath, vhenan, ma'daris, ar ame lath'an! Let me come, please...Want to come with you inside me."

Somehow keeping himself balanced while moving, the hand slides down his body. Chest, abdomen, cock. It takes a moment, moving the knot from the tip of his cock. Then unraveling, unraveling away to the sound and feel of him slamming into him. Nothing more, he wants nothing more than to be complete with his fen’orain, his wolf, his lover.

His orgasm is as painful as it is pleasurable, ripping scream after scream from his throat as it rocks through his body. Chased by each thrust of the cock inside him. He sobs, pushing back, needing to feel the safety of the body behind him. Around him as he shudders and his cock pulses again and again.

Dirthamen holds him close, moving their bodies together instead of apart. His face is buried into his fen'orain's neck. It is impossible to describe, to feel, what his voice screaming in pleasure does to him. Short thrusts. Quicker. Desperate. Trying to find something to tip him over the edge yet giving his lover pleasure. 

He is too far gone to do more than rest back in his arms, trembling, body pliant. He mouths his ear, licks it, gives small nibbling kisses, all while breathing heavily. “Da'daris, sweet, are you going to come for me? Mmm, can feel how hard you are, I know how much you must want it. Did you hold out, waiting for me? Sweet, precious. You're beautiful, let me see you let go. So good to me. You've treated me so well. I don't deserve you.” He swallows, fighting back emotions that are too close to the surface. He doesn't deserve him.

What has he done?

That seems to be what he needed, to hear that lovely voice once more. His cries are quiet, just for his Wolf, gasps and sharps intakes of breath against his shoulders. Deep inside him as he spills, holding there a moment. Then quick rolls of his hips and pauses for each subsequent wave. It might seem to Solas to warm up inside him, like sunshine blanketing the world after a thunderstorm. He holds him closer, seems to cuddle into him before his movements still. Hand interlacing with one of his fen'orain's.

He disguises the shakiness of his breath as exertion, rather than sudden doubt and shame, and grips the hand tightly. The feeling of magic everywhere is intoxicating, both inside and out, so he lets it carry his mind away. “Dari...Dirthamen. I…wish to be held, for a while longer, please don't go.”

"I... don't think... I could even make myself leave..." He can't understand it. This warm contentedness washing over him. To curl up and never leave. Can't even begin thinking of separating their bodies, of moving. Dirthamen nuzzled under his jaw bone, to the softer skin of his chin, affectionate, before tipping up for a lazy kiss. "Fen'orain..." A breathless name full of wonder. The hands finally move, fingers removing the bindings about his wrists. They feel over the flesh, rubbing and massaging the lengths of his lower arms. Bringing first one, then another to kiss over his shoulders. "Was it what you wished? Was it pleasant?" The question of hurt and harm is there, even if unspoken. He reaches down further to cup the softening cock. Careful least it is too sensitized or the rope left on too long.

“Thank you. I worried I asked for too much. Ah, well, I know that I asked for too much. You are too indulgent of me. I cannot recall being so well satisfied.” He tucks his head under his chin. A small twitch when his cock is touched, then quiets as the touch remains soft and gentle. He reached back to pull the string on his blindfold and hesitates. He could take it all off. Reveal himself, ask for his aid honestly. But the risk...not only to his life, but to his mission. By choosing this location, he has revealed his alliance with Mythal. And what if he is rejected, once he knows? Would he feel betrayed, used? There isn't time to consider! To cover his hesitation, he asks “Do you wish to remove my blindfold, ma'vhenan?”

"Ah, forgive me. Although I could keep it on, and keep surprising you~" the tone is soft and playful, even a bit sleepy. He removes it and let's it flutter to the floor. The body shifts and most likely thrusts a little inside him again without intending. The dark hair is moved away from the neck, slow nuzzles and kisses laid there instead. "Thank you. For this... gift, this experience. And for your patience in teaching me. I....I..." Lacing his own hands together over his love's belly, shyness creeping over him again.

“I can honestly say the pleasure was indeed all mine.” He chuckles, quietly, closing his eyes. “You are very endearing. What is it?” He hooks a foot over his ankle, rubbing absently.

"It felt beautiful... and safe..." There, he's said it, no matter how soft the words are. Beyond that even he can't understand. So how could he explain? It was just sex wasn't it? Something to pass the time, release stress, and all the other things he had told himself before when he couldn't understand why everyone seemed obsessed with it. But thinking of trying it with other people almost immediately shuts it down, as if he can't imagine the same euphoric feeling with anyone other than his wolf. "Afraid I'm going to wake up from a dream..."

“Yes. I… Well, it has been many years, in truth since I have been with a partner...where I wished it. But there is a feeling that can only come when, ah, you are held securely by...a person for whom you feel a certain closeness. Um, and feel safe letting them have your body, to push its limits. You become a presence within yourself, watching and experiencing, but no longer in control.” Solas can feel the heat in his cheeks, and is grateful he cannot be seen. He is making a mess trying to explain. It wasn't always this difficult, was it? “Though I have had some pleasant dreams that included you, it would be a singular experience to wake from one to find you still there.”

Dirthamen tightened his arms around him in a quick hug. Enjoying this, this... afterglow peace. Where holding him is just as much as the act. "I dreamed of you too. Your voice teaching me things..." He takes the words and holds them close. He wishes it to. Every night to lay beside him. To wake up every morning and hear his voice as the very first sound. To take him by the hand and share with him each new experience and secret. "Keep sweet talking and I'll go again~" Dirthamen sounds far too sleepy to follow through with the suggestion.

Solas reaches under the couch, pushing his clothes aside (smiling to himself as he remembers his prize secreted there) and pulls up a blanket. He gives it a toss and a few lazy tugs, and settles for good enough. “Only if you don't mind if I nap through it, da'daris.” He gives one last kiss, and closes his eyes.

That wakes him up a little bit, if only to laugh. A happy glow in the traces of magic around them. "I suppose I could, if the invitation extends to me as well." It sounds playful, is not hesitant and hopeful. Dirthamen shifts, stealing under the blanket as well, snuggling close and hoping he won't be pushed away. "...I could have summoned my cloak", another sleepy whisper.

“I. Ahem. Well, if you do not mind having all of the Fade as an audience.” He pulls on the arms around him, pulling him in tighter. Kissing the knuckles, one after the other. He tucks it under his chin, still held in his own hand. “Shhh.”

The reaction makes Dirthamen smile. He wants to make him laugh, to fluster with his words again. But instead he presses equal kisses to his ear, to the nape of his neck. Tucking his head against the dark hair even as his breath starts to even out as his body grow lax against his Wolf's. He should probably tell him... that he's figured his identity out...

When he wakes up, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Lath, vhenan, ma'daris, ar ame lath'an = Love, heart, my flower, I love you


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what we finally updated! :D
> 
> (from KRMalana: I apologize. Gnome and I have at minimum several chapters worth sitting waiting for editing, but I couldn't work on it since much of 2016 was being delayed from graduating from grad school _TWICE_ )

If they had only thought to close their eyes for a few moments, the intention escaped them. Several hours have passed before Dirthamen begins to stir. Groans soft and deep in his throat, as if knowing he did not wish to awaken. But as the bright eyes blink open they widen with surprise at the unfamiliar scenery.

 

And yet more surprising is his shock that his fen'orain still slumbers beside him.

 

Deep in his heart lay the fear that he would awaken to find no one. His face softens as he watches the masked elf. Chest rising and falling with gentle breaths. The bright eyes wander up to the mask and two thoughts come to him. The first that it must be uncomfortable, and the second... of the ease at which it could be removed. But he does not dwell on the thoughts, for there is no need.  And instead begins a trail of fluttering kisses along the curled shoulder.

 

In marked contrast, Solas drifts up from sleep slowly. He makes a discontent noise, and rubs his face deeper into the pillows while dragging the blanket more thoroughly over himself. It's still chilly considering both the early hours of dawn and their location so near to the lake. But the single blanket isn't enough to keep the cold from further rousing him. “No. Early. _Sleep_.” He curls closer to his lover, seeking warmth.

 

Dirthamen has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. The fact his wolf is not an early riser is secreted away.  Precious knowledge to be used later. With a thought the spell on his earrings activates and they stretch into the raven feather embroidered cloak. It is thicker than the blanket and easily heated with further magic. It stretches over both of them as Dirthamen wraps an arm around him. 

 

“You. I can feel you laughing. Am I being mocked?” Solas slits open his eyes and smiles before leaning in for a kiss. “Cruel.” He kisses him again, this time on the forehead. Then down below his eye, under his jaw, his neck. “Apologies for being a remiss host. I did not... make adequate preparations for an extended visit.”

 

"It was not my intention to mock you. It is endearing." He lazily returns the kisses, arching and stretching a bit like a cat as they move lower. "It is alright, fen'orain. If you wish to return to sleep you may, and I will continue to observe you unhindered." There is a soft smile on his face. It is just like he imagined:  hearing his lover's voice as the first sound of the day. His heart quickens in his chest and he resists the urge to touch it.  Shorter curls of hair around the his face flutter instead. 

 

“Why sleep, when I have the vision of my dreams right here?” He slides even further down, continuing to trail kisses. His body comes awake as his mind does, taking an interest in the lovely man below him. He gives only a slight warning, teeth and mouth at the top of his stomach as he strokes him, before taking him in his mouth. It’s quiet, slow, and he takes his time giving both himself and his lover pleasure. Movements makes his body ache and remember. The pinch of clamps, being filled, the sting from a hand, and he spills first, over his hand. Then he turns his attention fully to bringing his Daris over the peak with him.

 

It is so suddenly and lovely that Dirthamen struggles to breath. Whatever he had been expecting this was not it. He tries to keep himself still. Tries to keep his hips and cock from remembering how good it was to thrust forward, to be surrounded by warmth. He tries to speak, to ask him to pause a moment, but the words come out in a rush of whispered pleas. Hand fisting a loose lock of dark hair falling over his shoulder. A hitch in his breath is the only warning he can give before he spills moments later. "F-fen'or-rain!"

 

Solas sucks until moans turn to whimpers, then pulls away with a pop. Smirking, he prowls forward to claim a much more heated kiss, salt still on his tongue. "Now, I believe, we are both awake. Good morning."

 

For a few moments, the words out of Dirthamen's mouth are unintelligible. With flushed cheeks he finally swallows and blinks until his vision clears. A sudden realization that revenge has been taken upon him for waking the man. "Good morning... I will admit, I wasn't expecting that." Another kiss, a press of their foreheads together as much as he is able.

 

He rubs his nose alongside Dirthamen's, once, then slips to the side and onto the floor. He thinks, for a moment, of what to use as a distra--  “Oh shit. The curtains.” They have all burned to nothing. But in the meantime, he takes the opportunity to slip into the stolen undergarments, and pull a pair of pants up over them.

 

"Wha-? Oh!" Dirthamen sits up and turns to look at them. They have clearly burned, little traces of fire blackening the arches where they used to hang. There are other signs as well, of magic combining and out of control. Jagged marks like lightning on the ceiling and pillars, wispy curls of frost still on the floor. Dirthamen darkens with embarrassment, turning to make sure his wolf wasn't hurt. "I... forgive me... I must have--"

 

“You are not the only one present with prestigious magical talent. Let us share the blame. Though you do look very charmingly contrite. I might have let you make it up to me, if 'getting up' was something either of us were capable of.” He continues to dress while speaking, back slightly turned.

 

This part threatens to be awkward. He cannot deny there had been a greater exchange of...emotions then he had been planning. “I am sure that a man as important as you must have many matters vying for his attention. I have stolen enough of your time?” Damn. That should have been firmer. Now the prince will think him fishing for reassurances. He needs none.

 

He has gotten all that he wanted out of this exchange.

 

"You may steal it whenever you wish," the words escape like a bird on wing before he can stop them. Dirthamen tries not to fluster or stutter. It was true, as much as he was mortified to admit. He dresses as well, wondering at the sudden distance he seems to feel. The thought makes him miss that a piece of clothing is missing. And noticing the still wrapped gift from the night serves to distract him further. Red hair brushes briefly over the ground as he crouches to retrieve it. "Though I do believe you owe me the pleasure of your reaction for distracting us last night..." It is held out between them and the weight of it is suddenly heavy in his hands.  As if wondering it is still appropriate to give to his man that has suddenly spring into his life.

 

Solas' heart does some sort of funny thing, where it tries to fly off while simultaneously being pierced and dragged down by tiny fishhooks. Then he remembers that his flower has never played this game. He is, therefore, not playing at all.  And his words are said with complete honestly. “I... This is... You may not understand the significance of your actions, ma'daris. To give a gift at this time may perhaps be taken to declare intentions that you do not have.” He reaches out, anyway, hands near the gift but not taking it. Not yet. Wondering. Heart beating faster. “I understand if you want to meet again. It does not have to come with any conditions.  You are under no obligation to...” A relationship. Dirthamen would never have offered if he truly knew what, _who_ , he was. The realization makes his hands sink to his side. 

 

Dirthamen's own heart seems to sink in his chest. The look on his face is strange. A hundred emotions at once and none at all. The color drains from his eyes as Dirthamen unconsciously sinks to the couch, gift loose in his hands. The red hair that had been dancing around him sinks and dulls as well. Wilting.

 

"My intentions..." He had questioned himself, of course. Questioned everything when he had discovered the identity of his fen'orain. But the more he had thought the more he realized that the truth mattered little. That there was one now beloved of his heart.  That was all that mattered. "I have always known them, I believed, since the day we met... But it appears I have... misinterpreted--" He rockets to his feet, arms clutching the bundle tightly. Face hidden by hair and shadows as he bows low. "Forgive me." A quick turn, magic crackling as he activates the raven cloak, the rush of it muffling the tearing in his chest.

 

Solas could end it now. Cleanly. There would be some pain but not as much as if he waited. It would, perhaps, be the right thing to do. He draws the breath to do so. Tell him that he is correct. Exhales. Draws another. _I don't want you_. Exhales. Moments pass in silence. This is selfish, he tells himself. He reaches out, clasping a wrist before he is gone. Reaches out, tracing an ear down to his jaw, tipping it towards him gently. Thumb brushing against his cheek.

 

Tell him.

 

Don't tell him.

 

He wavers, mouth opening and closing, struggle written on his face as he watches the hope bloom so plainly. “It is not that I do not chose you. It is because you should not chose me. I can give you nothing. Only strife and danger.”

 

Dirthamen stills at the touch and tips his face to look at him. It is plain that most of his will is in use to control his emotions. What has come over him?  Where is his control? Pale lips tremble as he listens. Yet, at the end, he does not cry or wilt. Instead something stirs in him, roaring. He will fight. For them. For _himself_ , for once in his life. "If you did not feel the same, did not wish for more beyond this, I would have been mistaken in believing in more. But if you feel the same as I, is it not then _my_ choice? To take all considerations and still choose to fight through fire and agony for the mere chance to feel you smile at me, to hear your voice first in my ear upon waking?"

 

The masked man turns his back, unable to continue looking at his face.  Suddenly weak he sinks to sit at his feet. He leans, cautiously, against his legs, giving himself time to think. “You don't know what you are truly asking for. You think that” skips the word they are both thinking, “emotions will sustain you through years, centuries of hardship?” He intends to speak harshly, but his voice is plaintive. Truly, he is asking: _Don't leave me. They always leave me_. “It will not last, but the consequences will. If you are so determined, then, give me your gift. On your head be it.”

 

For several moments there is nothing. Then the legs move away. But not to leave. Not to walk away and never look back. It is to kneel, to wrap his arms around him and bury his face in the dark hair. He had feared that he had misread whatever this is between them; where he had seen love his wolf had not. But he would not say these things if there weren't something. "I choose you, my fen'orain, my vhenan. And whatever consequences that will bring. The gift is unimportant." He does not wish him to feel bullied or guilted into accepting it.

 

“Fool.” His arms come up to wrap tightly around the man in his arms, holding tightly. Himself the greater fool for accepting it. But he tried, didn't he? Surely, that will be enough. He pets Dirthamen’s red hair, very conscientiously drawing in even breathes to keep his shoulders steady.

 

Time passes.

 

The sun climbs over the hills on the far side of the lake, finally shining down into their hiding place. He reaches up, bringing the abandoned gift down. Puts it between them, in his lap, to see what it is the shadowed prince could possibly bring. Glass glitters in the sunlight as the cloth is pulled away to reveal the gift, shaped like the flower that he was wearing the first night. It blossoms as he holds it, petals iridescent as it catches the light.  It is then he notices the tiny wolves running along the edges within the glass.  “Vhenan... It’s beautiful.”

 

It is like his heart beats once more in his chest. He almost sags against him leaning his weight to steady himself a moment. He wants to lean his head on his shoulder but instead watches his Wolf's face as he studies the gift. "I had to make something. To keep my hands busy, to give to you when I saw you again." There is a twinkle in his eye as he points at one of the little wolves. "The wolves are actually paper, folded and arranged, to almost anything imaginable and-- ah. I should not have spoiled it."

 

“If one were given to vanity, they would presume that they had been your mind, as much as you had been on theirs.” He twists the flower this way and that, before tucking it between the band of his mask and his ear. “Do I look fetching?” His smile is still wobbles, but only for a moment. He leans in slowly, lips just brushing his mouth. Sweeps in again, more pressure. Again. Pulls back, inviting pursuit.

 

Wings flutter overhead as the prince leans forward, caws cutting the air. It is not the almost forgettable sound of song birds that have surely flown around the pavilion. Heavier, stronger. And with calls distinct as their shape. Dirthamen groans against his mouth, and not the pleasant variety, before pulling back. A black feathered raven settles on a nearby railing, cawing at its master as soon as it sees him. The red-haired elf glared in the bird's direction as he sat back on his knees, speaking to the bird as easily as a person. "I will never understand your impossible ill-timing."

 

Solas looks down at their intimate embrace. Used and discarded toys on the floor, and the tipped over empty bottle of oil. Burned curtains, ropes tied to the pillars. Decadent pillows. There is nothing this could be mistaken for but what it is. “Dirthamen?”

 

"It is as you said before, I am needed somewhere..." Dirthamen lingers in their position. He doesn't seem afraid or quick to hide, as the raven is his own messenger. Yet, to be pulled away from this little paradise... He gathered his Wolf's hands in his own, curling the fingers to press kisses to them. Eyes playful, and hopeful. "May we... meet again? I can host next time if you wish..."

 

“Da'Daris, I will look forward to it with breathless anticipation.” Hints of a blush edge down past the end of his mask. Next time...he won't wear it. Dirthamen deserves to know what he is getting into, truly, but now is not the time. “Ma'lath. Until then.” One last kiss. Rises to his feet, pulls him up after him. Alright, one more kiss. A few more. Hands still clasped. One more. Kisses to the cheek don't count, so neither do these, to the jaw, down the neck. One more, to the ears. Well, can't neglect the other one. He steps back, raises his knuckles to his mouth. “I'll be waiting.”

 

The kisses leave Dirthamen warm and happy, with soft laughs of surprise or tiny noises with each one. It comes to the point the raven ruffles its feathers and turns it's body away. Youngsters nowadays. Their hands linger together as long as Dirthamen dare leave them before slipping away. "Until then, my fen'orain~ Memories and anticipation will have to keep us." The raven cloak shifting from the earrings to cover his robe, one last playful smile before the hood draws over his face. The raven messenger blinks one dark eye at Solas before it takes wing to accompany it's master.

 

~*~*~

 

A thought may come to Solas on his journey home. One that nags and worms. Dirthamen said he would contact him this time... But no arrangement was made to slip secret communication between them. And he has not seen behind the mask. So how could the red-haired master of secrets and knowledge possibly contact him?

 

The answer comes on wings. The ravens fly straight to the fortress, straight to Solas, as if they've done it a thousand times. One with its dark feathers tinted blue and the other with dark feathers tinted violet. There is no mistaking their identity nor the identity of their master. One clutches a flower of love and devotion in its talons. And the other a flower of secrets known.

 

Solas clutches the flowers carelessly in his hands, dizzy with shock. He knew. _He knew!_ The entire time. He's been taken for a fool, and by the god of secrets, served by deception and fear no less. He should have suspected. Was it an act that first night? Play the innocent as a game? Did he laugh at his invitation, that someone had been taken in so completely? Play along, again, so he could brag that he had tamed the elusive Fen'Harel? Then more immediate worries. Has he betrayed his friend, by selecting one of her old temples for his tryst? She will need to be told, if she is to deflect accusations in the future. Fool, _fool_.

 

What could he possibly make of Dirthamen’s act at the end? To twist the knife? He was so beautiful, so sweet. The gift was made with care and skill, personalized for him. Is it safe to remain here? No. He raises to his feet, sways. Calls fire to his hands, burns it all. Changes shape and runs. The flower remains tucked behind his ear until his loping strides knock it, unheeded, to the forest floor.

 

He seeks out one of his more elusive hiding places in the mountains, his fallback if his main fortresses are ever taken, and waits. A week passes, and no ravens come. The spirits that carry him messages are quiescent. Another week. There should be rumors. Dirthamen has taken a lover. He has humiliated the rebellious Evanuris. He stays in his wolf form, day and night, lonely and desolate. Another week, and boredom sets in, edging out misery. He dares venture into his fortress, high in the mountains. Listens for what the common gossip is, but keeps out of sight. Perhaps he has misjudged what game is being played here, yet again. He had told himself, hadn't he, that he had no idea how to read Dirthamen's strange moods? He had thought it kindness. But it only proves he does not have the power to see through his artifice.

 

Another week, and sorrow gives way to anger. How _dare_ he. He is not some toy to be taken and used. How he had been made to howl and beg. It had been thrilling then, but the memory now burns with humiliation. This insult cannot go unanswered. He returns, now in mind and spirit as well as body, to his followers. Looks over the holdings of Falon'Din, and plans.

 

Then a letter arrives.

 

An invitation? To...he looks it up on one of his maps, though it takes some effort. An old castle, once owned by a rival of Falon'Din. It has been abandoned for more than a century.  He understands. Dirthamen has proven that he will hold his silence. Keep his secret.  Now that he has had weeks to image the humiliation of being discovered, he is being given a way to ensure he never is. But only for a price. He makes his arrangements, sends back his reply. He will come. He won't agree, out of hand, but it can't hurt, surely, to simply hear his terms? He is a skilled negotiator, there may be a way out of this yet.

 

~*~*~ 

 

If it had been up to Dirthamen he would have returned to his wolf in mere hours. But, as with all things dearly anticipated, he is delayed. There are his duties to attend to. His mountain city, his temple, his library. Students to teach and his own lessons to attend. Oversee the mark of mastery exams where those who have mastered knowledge will only then take his mark. There are days when he rushed to his rooms in hopes of a message he knows will not be there, little whispers of love between the lies. There are nights and even daylight hours where his mind suddenly remembers, his body remembers, their past embraces. But he has the will to do nothing beyond taking himself in hand. He will wait on the rest.

 

The moment Dirthamen knows there will be free time in the coming days, he plans. With his lover's identity their meetings will need to remain secret for his safety. The abandoned castle, the holdings of someone unfortunate to try to rival his twin, would suit their needs. Dirthamen kept it as a place to slip away and hide over the years when no one will give him peace. Now he slips away to prepare it. Blankets and furs to warm to the bed, pillows to soften them, wood for a fire. There is not much by way of toys he could bring that he thinks his fen'orain might not already have. But he has dreamed and he has researched. Now all he can do is wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from KRMalana: The Dirthamen I write in this story was the first character/story I had written after finally finding that there was a term for how I identified (demisexual/demiromantic), which is the term for Dirthamen although it isn't named in the story. A lot of the feelings, emotions, and self-thoughts about how I felt before I had a term are manifested in Dirthamen throughout a lot of the early chapters of this fic, but especially this one.
> 
> Aka _I_ don't think Dirthamen is broken or needs to be fixed; but that's unfortunately how I thought about myself, was made to think about myself through society, and was told to my face I must be broken since I don't feel sexual/romantic attraction in the same way as others (and how a lot of demis feel/were made to feel too)

He arrives on the appointed day wearing his battle armor, a wolf pelt over his shoulder. The castle is mostly intact with some walls crumbling, holes peering out with dark eyes. He passes under the rusted open portcullis, ears and eyes perked for signs of ambush. It is unlikely, but it would be unwise to underestimate his opponent again. His footsteps echo on the stone as he enters the great hall. Three large arches take up the far wall, overlooking the valley. It would be a beautiful sight, were he in the frame of mind to appreciate it. A fire has been built up in the hearth.

 

Large arm chairs atop a thick rug are pulled up near the fire, with a small table between set with food and drinks. There is a couch as well, much like their previous escapades. But there is also a bed, draped with sheer canopy, tucked into what might have been a side room before one wall crumbled. The invitation had said for Solas to bring any and all toys that he wished, and whatever ones Dirthamen brought himself are not immediately apparent. But there is oil near the couch and the bed, rings where ropes could be tied. Dirthamen himself had not yet noticed the arrival, seated at the edge of the couch reading. His hair is in one long braid over his shoulder, displaying his neck with his head bent to read. Something shimmers with the firelight in his hair, little speckles like the ones that decorate the deep blue of his robe.

 

Alone. Not even a raven to watch over him. A noise or sense of his presence makes Dirthamen look up in delight. Already rising and setting the book aside. "Fen'orain, I--" The words stop, surprise replacing the delight as the bright eyes widen and the mouth remains parted. Not at Solas' appearance but his unmasked face. He walks to him, as if entranced, eyes growing more tender. Reaching out to caress his face, to trace it with both hands.

 

Solas ducks his head aside in a sharp motion, eyes cast downward, jaw tight. Does he expect him to pretend that things are the same? He might. Would he enjoy him making a show of his pleasure, knowing it was given under duress? “Dirthamen.” He has planned what to say, to weave clever words to an escape. But he had not expected that the realities of their situation would be ignored, and he gives up advantage to be the one to broach the topic. Damn him. “You have me here, then. Tell me plainly what it is you want from this arrangement. Do not expect I will have no demands of my own.”

 

The coldness surprises Dirthamen and the hands hover helpless for a moment before slowly dropping. They pick at each other near his stomach, a showing of nervousness. What has happened? This is almost not the man he has known. Not the voice he remembers. His eyes finally drift from the face he had so longed to see unmasked to his attire. Armor? "Were you busy? If it was a bad time, fen'orain, I would have understood..." The words are only spoken to give him time to think. Has he erred in some way? Done something to upset him? He tries to ignore how fear lances through his heart. No. He is not Falon'Din... oh... oh! "Did... did I alarm you with the first message? Was I... not supposed to figure it out, as you did with me?"

 

This is not the arrogant confession of a man who has maneuvered a pawn into his trap. He wavers, comparing his behavior the first night, then at the pavilion with this, now. How long had he known? He had his suspicions from the beginning, from the first utterance of 'Fen'orain'. But he cannot bear the thought of being tricked further. “I had not realized I had given myself away. My cautions to you that morning must have been ridiculous.” But he has never been sure, how to deal with the man before him. “When I first received your flowers, I had expected news of your conquest to be brandied across the Empire.”

 

"Only when your invitation arrived, when it was clear you had secreted out my identity or heard of it... The last when you mentioned the garden by the murals, painted in the way like your mask..." His voice trailed off as he thought. Confusion slowly turning to indignation. "They were not ridiculous. They were of your care and concern. Do you think I would force myself to come, pretend pleasure, if your identity behind the mask mattered to me? You-- you were no conquest, not to me! This... this is only between us... why would I speak of it to anyone without your consent? You think I would put you in danger? I--!" He can't speak, not anymore, and turns before the anger takes over, arms hugging himself.

 

 _You think you are worth anything?  Deserve anything?_   The voice of his father echoes, ever present.  _Be silent and accept the scraps._

 

His mask. Of course. It was a foolish vanity, to have painted it himself. Anyone who was familiar with his style could have put the clues together, though not many know that it was him who painted so many of the murals in Mythal's temples. There is no one else more suited to have discovered him. Now, though...  This is just what he would hope to hear, to be reassured. He doesn't know what to think. It is truly a simple choice. Trust. He could be humiliated, his pride damaged. There would be some fallout with his allies, but nothing irreparable. Not to trust. Walk away. If he is right, his reputation would be maligned as punishment. The same, either way. Why then, not risk just a little bit? “I have, perhaps, spoken poorly. You are right, I was disquieted by your discovery of my identity. I did not know what you planned to do with that knowledge.”

 

"You think I am my brother..." There is a brokenness to his voice. A shake. One that has begun to make his shoulders tremble. The hand above his heart claws, gripping the fabric almost too tightly. It is just like that morning when he thought his fen- ... when he thought Solas did not return his feelings. Had that been a clue? That this warmth between that Dirthamen thought as love was merely a pastime to him? Or worse? "I-i shouldn't be surprised t-then. Y-y-you won't be the first to think so… or the l-last."

 

Solas takes a small step forward, hand raised to offer comfort. Holds it awkwardly as he hesitates. Lowers it. Honesty, then. “Yes. The first night, I did not know you. I felt… that person was sweet, giving. I could not reconcile him with the sort of person I know the Evanuris to be. The last time, I gave you the opportunity to do me harm, to see if you would take the chance if it was presented. I did not expect you to be kind.” Another step forward, bodies close but hands at his side. “Whatever I thought, I no longer do so.” It’s not quite true, but he wants it to be. He'll act as though it is, until he is proven wrong.

 

"Then why? Why come here and say such things? Why not j-just talk with me?" He is a fool. Dirthamen knows he has been now.  To hope for something more, for something different than the shadows caging in his existence. The one time, the one person in the world, for whom he believed the shield around his heart could be lowered. Or for what? More pain, just like everyone else. His hands cover his face as he tried to regain his composure, to keep the gasping breaths from turning to something worse. He straightens and holds up a hand, palm out. "No, do not answer. I would be a fool not to know why. I have seen their game, more than you ever might have. Even then I am just a liability, too great a risk. Consequences... I should have understood then. Ha, you even warned me..." He looks to him, but does not see him. Dull and listless. "There is food and drink. Stay as long as you wish. I will not trouble you again. And I swear an oath I won't speak of this to anyone, so have no fear."

 

“I was afraid.” It hurts his pride to admit, but it also hurts to see the person he had cared for in pain. That shock of betrayal would not have been so strong, had his heart not already been opened. “I... Stay.” He makes a weak gesture, struggles to find something more to say. “Stay.” Reaches out, finally, to grasp the end of his braid, stroking it gently with his thumb.

 

"Why?" The question comes weakly. Not as a demand, but a cry for answers. "I promised myself, after that first time. That I wouldn't allow myself to be hurt anymore. That I wouldn't allow myself to be used anymore. Meeting you gave me the strength to do that..."

 

“It is well known that I champion for the liberation of slaves. It has gained me no love among the other Evanuris. It seemed like something they would do, to devalue me and my cause, to let it become known that I… have tastes that run in a certain direction. That I empathize with slaves because I have their nature.” Another step forward and they are only the barest distance apart. Slowly, he raises his hands, puts them on his arms. Pulls him to himself, hoping he will make the final step. Wanting to take him in his arms. Wanting for this conversation to never happen. To be able to start over. “Da'Daris. I ask that you accept my apology.”

 

For a moment, it seems like Dirthamen will not respond. That his attempt to cut himself off emotionally before has worked. But then he surges to close the last distance between them. Head buried against his neck, hands desperately clinging to his back. "I know... I know all of it. And part of me understands, understands your caution and your measure to protect yourself..." A hand moves, taking one of his Wolf’s hands and placing it over his heart. "But you've done something to me. Here. So much that all my knowledge and understanding is dust when you are near. All these songs and tales of love, of emotions with another, to be attracted to another, I did not feel. I believed myself to be broken, until you. And I may forgive you, but I will probably blubber over your armor first."

 

Solas sighs in relief, kissing the top of his head. He holds him tightly with one arm, the other holding their hands between their rapidly beating hearts. Solas waits like that for several long moments, choking back his own emotions, feeling the last of his terror melting away. “Ma'lath. I wish I could promise I would never hurt you again, but I can only promise that I will try. Your heart is far too precious to me. It is perfect. I… to you...there are...feelings.” He looks up at the ceiling, willing his blush to fade. He can say it. Just. Say it. “I… Ah...”

 

"We make a pair, don't we?" Dirthamen raised their joined hands, rubbing his cheek into the armored wrist. Even as he sniffles, blinks away the wetness in his eyes. Keeping him in his hand he turns to the fire, the chairs set out before them. "Perhaps we could... talk for a while?"

 

“What could go wrong with talking?” He huffs a little laugh, but let’s himself be led. He waits, still feeling wrong footed and turns to see what provisions Dirthamen had thought to lay out for the occasion. Honey, fruit, delicate cakes. Solas takes one of the last, pleased to find one of his favorites, which also gives him an excuse to avoid being the one to start a conversation or really look at his partner.  


"There is chilled water, tea, wine if you prefer to drink." Dirthamen motioned to a chair and waited to sit until Solas settled. He sat, curling his legs until him, pouring himself what smells like chamomile and lavender tea. He looks like he wants to take his hand again but instead curls it around the earthenware cup. "I... hope I am not presumptuous in asking but... what would you prefer I call you? I know Fen'Harel... is what the others gave you...  But if your personal name is too much, I understand."

 

He wrinkles his nose at the smell of tea, reaching instead for a sweet wine.  “My name is Solas, though it is somewhat late for introductions. You may continue to address me as you wish. The Dread Wolf is an insult that I have come to wear with pride. It is a symbol of hope for my allies, and something that my enemies fear. You find yourself in a somewhat unique position of occupying both groups.” He pulls on the figures of his gloves, tugging it off absently.

 

"My fen'orain...still, I would speakthe name that is yours truly." He says fondly, taking another sip of his tea before setting it down. Though he has brought it for Solas' pleasure he will not take part of the wine himself. The effects are not ones he enjoys and is rather sure there is a conspiracy amongst those who claim it has a good taste. He rises from his seat only to kneel next to Solas, taking his gloved hand and removing the material as he talks. "Solas..." He tried the name in his mouth, rolling the syllables on his tongue. "Solas. A name and a true face." A happy smile as he undoes the ties on the vambrace.

 

“Dirthamen.” He glances down, letting his hand be taken. He remembers fantasies just like this, with the man before him on his knees. He can no longer shield himself with fidgeting, so he runs his free hand under his braid, drawing along its length until the end is in his hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “I would know you better. Learn what and who you truly are, free of my misconceptions.”  And he knows there are many his mind has created.  The silent second son of Elgar’nan; the shadow beyond Falon’Din.  “And you could teach me in return. I enjoy conversing with spirits, and going too far off places to learn of events long past.”

 

Dirthamen's eyes seem to sparkle at that. "Through dreaming, yes? It was wonderful the few times I accomplished it, to see what the spirits remember... Does the distance help? It seems too... noisy around my temple to achieve it nowadays..." He moves to his other arm to remove the armor there. "Fear and Deceit have been with me since we were all very small... though those are not the names I find most accurate... I do not know if it was them or myself that attracted ravens thereafter. Ah, and Bear! But he stays near my city."

 

“Distance. Self-discipline. A mind that is open, yet discerning. I find it fascinating that you have managed to keep the attention of not one, but two spirits for as long as you have. You must share some part of their nature. Ah. Um. Though, that isn't to say...Fehendis.” Solas lifts his eyes to the ceiling, head falling back with a thunk. “I have not done this, in earnest, in quite some time. I do not mean offense. I've heard great things of your mountain city.”

 

No offense seems to be taken and a soft laugh answers him. "They are not as negative as people associate them. Fear is dark when used to control another, but it can also keep you safe. Or an obstacle to overcome that you may grow. Deceit works much the same, when the truth is too painful. Or a shield to greater harm." Pale hands trailed down Solas' arms, finger pressing lightly into the vein through the cloth worn under the armor. The way he has spoken, the remembering expression, might lead one to believe that the raven spirits are so close because their master has lived under the traits they invoke. His mood brightens at the mention of the city as he settles back to his knees and begins work on the armor encasing his legs. "A city of knowledge and learning. Mother said my mind has always been too hungry, even when we were small. If something is unknown to me I must learn it, understand it. But one can't achieve that merely by watching or listening...

 

There are many disciplines and arts in the city. The artisans, the martials, the animal and plant husbandry on the east slope so it catches the sun... There is a master ship builder arriving in a few days along with her wife, who has been studying the different creatures of the sea. If you ever wish to come you are welcome to--" He had been glancing up, smile almost brighter than it has ever been. Then he thinks better, realizing that it might not be possible. "Forgive me, I did not mean to be careless of your safety..."

 

What could it possibly be that one as precious and gifted as the man before him need hide from? The horrors of war? To turn a blind eye to the unwilling service of his slaves? Solas shifts in his seat, eyes still upward, greatly aware of the hands on his body as he is slowly drawing him out of his armor with touches to newly exposed skin. He wonders if the tease is unintentional, or if he had been studying in the time they have been apart. He frowns at the thought. Of course, he wouldn't have taken a new lover so soon after his first. Unless it was to learn and understand, as he says he is drawn to. “No, I do not think I could walk openly in your city. To allow it would be to declare your association with me. There may be long intervals of time when I am not able to be with you. You might find that in those times, that you wish to continue to explore the new experiences of your body. Do you-- if you… you may wish to take a lover.” That is not as neutral as he wished. It seems that he always draws his feelings to the surface, no matter how he does not wish it.

 

"Fen'orain... Solas. Look at me." The request is gentle. Both hands settle on the unarmored knee, with no further words or touches until their eyes connect. "I do not think I am capable of taking a lover, besides you... As I said, before I met you I seemed to lack... everything. I could not understand what they spoke of when one describes themselves filled with lust or desire or attraction. That was until... until I met you. Your careful touch, the warmth of your voice...If you are concerned, there has been perhaps one other who I would not describe as a lover. As you might guess I searched for an explanation after we..."

 

A flush, a brief glance away before he continues.  "I was too curious. What had happened differently? Had I somehow been fixed? To repeat what you had done to me with another was... I did not care for it. The opposite, in fact, inasmuch as my body revolted at that manner of touch as it always had. The only one who may cause you worry in that regard would be my brother. He... views it as a game, to try to find someone or something to awaken me to a nature like himself. The masquerade was just the last in a line of many games."

“There is nothing to fix. You are _not_ broken. That Falon'Din believes there is simply another example of his lack of insight.” Solas reaches for both of his hands, and pulls him up into his lap. Its awkward, with his leg armor half off, but he shifts until he can make do. “This person you tried to experiment with. Did they treat you with consideration? Your participation was not coerced, by any means?” He runs his hands briskly over his arms, down his shoulders, as though he could find any injury left behind after who knows how long, as though they would be on his body for him to find.

 

"No, for once I was not coerced. I asked them to experiment and they seemed happy to oblige, though rather displeased when I asked them to stop. So I removed myself from the situation." He tries not to lean into the touch. But he shivers. Yet is it from the touch, or the memory? "I see now I should have stayed my curiosity."

 

“For once? Dirthamen. Names. Now.”

 

"I wouldn't know their names..." Dirthamen takes a steadying breath, eyes looking elsewhere in shame. "It is... hard to explain to people. They do not seem to understand unless they themselves are a twin. To have a twin is like... half of yourself in another body. We grew in the womb together, our minds and hearts used to be nearly as one... But it is my own fault, for allowing so many years to pass for me to realize that the bond I cherished with Falon'Din is not even a thought to him... And for not having the strength to turn away, to not blindly follow with his games while only wanting a chance to be close to him again." A hand scratches at his arm, unconsciously feeling sullied as he tries to explain it. "Falon'Din offered to help me. After all, how could he so abundantly enjoy sex while I did not? Parading in people to "fix" me... It never went far. Falon'Din and the others growing bored or angry when nothing happened... Forgive me." It is hard to talk about, he wants to say, but the words stick in his mouth. Forgive me for drawing you into this. _Forgive me for coming to you unclean._

 

“I see.” He hadn't been planning on burning all of the holdings of Falon'Din to the ground, salting the grounds with the blood of his followers, but all good plans are flexible. If it could be any of them, then they will all die. He pulls Dirthamen tighter to him, swallowing the words he wishes to speak in anger. There will be time for it, later. When his lover is not hurting. “Have I not said you are not broken? That there is no fault in you? Lay the blame where it is deserved. We need speak of it no longer, if it upsets you.”

 

"You may have mentioned it each time... But it is hard to change what I had concluded about myself for so long. And harder still to break away from my own flesh and blood..." Dirthamen allows himself to be pulled closer. Leans against him, taking in his scent and warmth. "I have wished to change. Myself and the wrongs I see around me. But I did not have the words, did not have the strength or means. Until you and this... revelation you have given me. This key to the lock around my heart, this rush of emotions, this love, arousing both my life and my body--" The blush is so fierce across Dirthamen's cheeks that Solas must feel it on his neck. "I speak academically of course. I blame you."

 

“I will accept that I am greatly at fault, then, and compound my guilt with further offense.” He slides his hand into his hair where his braid begins, maneuvering him into a kiss. Gently, ready to let go. He runs the other hand over the buckle of his over-wide belt, pulling it apart and off. “Always with the layers, ma'daris. Do you enjoy making me pluck your petals away, one by one?”

 

"Do not lob stones, fen'orain, when you've come armored tighter than a fortress," he shifts his legs to kneel on either side of his lap, as much as the seat will allow. Pushing up, to kiss and wrap his arms around his lover's neck. And allow better access to his clothing. "But... you have... discovered me..." Whispered quickly in between kisses. "I am... fond... of this name you've given me." Finally reaching up to touch, to memorize, the face of his heart. Free from the mask that stood between them.  Free from the distance that others would force between them.

 

“Lay siege, then.” He leans back, just slightly, with a dangerous look in his eyes, a smirk on his lips. “I am prepared for a long” a roll of his hips, “drawn out” bringing a finger to his lips, “conquest.” spearing it into his mouth, letting his cheeks hallow out as he sucks. Drawing it out again, wet, with a pop.

 

"Oh..." The whimper of want is soft, shaky. He had not expected the effect his words would have on him yet again. He works on the shoulder guards first. Then the chest plate. With each piece of armor removed touching and mouthing his skin through the fabric underneath. He pauses for a time, eyes half lidded but wicked, as he finds the mounds of his nipples through the fabric. Remembering how he was taught. Just enough to make them peak and harden before moving lower. Removing the rest of the leg armor he had left. The metal over his abdomen and pelvis. He cups Solas through the fabric before lowering to mouth it. "Tell me, fen'orain. How you'd outwit me now I've devastated your defenses."

 

“I must first take away your advantages. Your hands are far too clever. I should bind them, wrist to elbow behind your back. Your mouth is too tempting. If I were to silence it with a gag, it would both take away your ability to charm, and the temptation to find my pleasure there.” He pets gently while speaking, kneading his fingers through his hair, before grasping him firmly in place. “Then it would be time to spring my own offensive. While you are caught. Helpless. Mine.”

 

"Please, yes." Dirthamen's eyes are dark with sudden want. Like an idea has bloomed in his head but he doesn't understand how to form it in words. He presses up into the hand. His own spread over Solas thighs. "That... can you... do that? Cover my eyes. And... use just your voice? Is this in your abilities, fen'orain?"

 

“It would be a worthy experiment. It has not escaped my notice how you react to my words. But I would not wish to push you while you are yet vulnerable from our previous conversations. Perhaps a compromise. Follow me.” He stands, hand still caught in the other man’s hair, keeping him kneeling at his feet. He brushes a thumb over hip lip, pushes into his mouth, other fingers curled under his chin. Withdraws it to brush his lip again. “Good. Good boy. Up now.” A slight tug at his hair, and a hand to help him up. He lowers his grip once more to his braid, using it as a lead as he walks into the room set up with a bed.

 

“You will do as I say. Pick a word. If at any point you wish to stop, say your word and I will stop. There will be no repercussions of any kind. Nod if you accept. Then take off your clothes. Neatly, now. And tell me your word. Say nothing else.”

 

Surprise, in a way. He hadn't mocked him or replaced his want with his own. Warmth in his bones and stirring his want further. He follows him, wanting to ask but swallowing both his words and the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth. Dirthamen nods, a few strands of red curling about his face. He keeps his eyes on Solas as he undresses. Should he rush? Or should it be slow? It is, as Solas said earlier, like the blossoming of a flower at the first light of day. Each layer removed, folded neatly in a chair, each pale patch of skin revealed. Then he is naked and bared save perhaps for his braid. " _Nescience_."

 

“Good. You're doing very well.” Solas gestures to the bed. “Lay down along your front. Lace your hands together above your head, and keep them there. I am not going to bind you. Yet.” While he waits for his instructions to be followed, he takes stock of the supplies in the room. Oil, which he puts within easy reach on a pile of lose, stacked stones. Ropes and clothes of various makes also go in the pile. With a smirk, he pockets yet another pair of underwear, uncaring of stealth for his latest infraction. His eyes playfully dare him to make something of it.

 

As he lays out, with his hair bound and over his shoulder, his back is displayed. Graceful lines in a black ink, with a hint of iridescent colors. Blue, violet, green? Like holding a black feather to the light and seeing it is not one color. Raven wings. Sprouting from his shoulder blades spanning up towards his neck before swooping along his spine, the tips of the feathers ticking his behind. A number of the feathers are merely outlined, empty but their fellows are filled with names and titles in graceful script. Disciplines of magic, or theories of nature. Martial arts that hone the body, dancing. All subjects belonging to knowledge and spaces for more. Dirthamen can feel the eyes on him and his back flexes unconsciously as he tries to keep still, the feathers rippling. Bright eyes have watched his lover’s movements about the room, peeking over his arm as he lays waiting. Back rising and falling in almost steady breaths. They only flicker once as the undergarments are pocketed. He had meant to ask before. To tease. Yet. Oh yet. His fingers tighten against each other and relax.

 

“Mm, I was sure I would have you, there. Yet another pair to add to my collection. Maybe next time you will simply not wear any? I win, either way. You'll have to let me guess which way it is. Will you blush, every time you notice their absence? You would.” He is laughing as he walks back and gets up on the bed. He moves to straddle him at the hips, and takes the bottle of oil in hand. “Are you wondering what I am going to do? Be still, now.” Hands coated, he reaches down, stroking very lightly down his back. Simply coating it, making it slick to the touch. Firmer, as he pushes his way back up, following the dips of his spine. “Has anyone ever given you a massage, daris? You may speak to answer.”

 

He turns to peek over his shoulder before burying his head against his arm. When he closes his eyes there is no fear. Only contentedness at his touch. "No." He is not sure if he is allowed to say more. He knows it, knows the relaxing benefits. Receiving the marks of mastery on his back is at times its own trial, putting trust in an artist unseen.

 

“Then let us see if we cannot draw your mind into quiescence through relaxing the body, hm?” He lets the feathers acts as a guide for his hands, working in ever outward circles. He reads each as he passes over it, becoming impressed. Eventually, he moves on to other areas. Four fingers rubbing into the neck, easing tension from leaning over books. A slick slide down an arm, the heel of his palms pressed into muscle, then gently rubbing into a delicate palm, up slender fingers. Repeating on the other side. Giving in to temptation to kiss skin growing warm from his attentions. “Tell me how you feel, my flower.”

 

"Warm. Safe." He is glad that with words slip out without trembling.  It has been so long since he has truly felt either.  Part of him hovers near arousal at the intimacy. The rest seems to loosen at each touch, each breath. The kisses little bursts that draw him back before he floats again. His mind seems like a tide, slowly ebbing and flowing in the directions of his hands. Like he is held in his hands both figurative and literally. "Floating like a leaf in a stream..."

 

“Hmm, very good. You're so sweet. So very good. You're lovely. You have hard muscles under your soft skin, but move with grace. You train your mind and will into an indomitable focus. Overcoming it will be...fascinating.” Finally, he reaches for the soft, thick rope. “On your knees, now, my sweet. Give me your hands.” He shifts back to give him room to comply.

 

A shiver travels through him at the words. Not the thought of being conquered. But completely in the hands of his fen'orain. Something akin to a jolt that settles in his belly when the command comes. He moves slowly, carefully, body posed as if in meditation. But his arms slide behind his back. Fingers interlacing loosely at the small of his back. The position makes his chest arch just a little bit. The rosebud nipples rising and falling with each breath past a parted mouth.

 

Solas reaches around with an arm, holding him still, then kisses him where his neck meets his shoulder. Digs in slightly with his teeth, then sucks until a bruise raises up there. Then with a reluctant sigh he pulls back, but can't resist one more kiss to the edge of his ear. “There, good. Grip your arms above each elbow.” He twines the rope around the middle of the bar his arms now make, and at the last-minute pulls Dirthamen’s braid into the binding, pulling his head just slightly back. When he is done, the rope makes a pretty pattern all the way up to his wrists, all entwined with red. “You are well?”

 

It is akin to agony to keep his arms in place. When he could be touching the arm around him. When he could pull his lover’s body flush against him. The attention to his neck brings soft gaps, moans, wanting to rock his hips forward but willing himself still. When commanded Dirthamen does as he asks. Goosebumps proceeding each twist and note in the bindings. A sound low in his throat, then “Yes.”

 

“Hm, let us not overdo it on our first try. You will tell me if you experience an undue amount of strain. Now then. Eyes forward.” Solas slips off the bed, making sure to stay out of sight. He begins to pull off the rest of his clothes, intentionally making noise. Sliding cloth and whispering strings and crinkling leather. He lets each fall to the floor one by one, then notices the stolen underwear peeking out of one pocket. Well, why not please himself? He steps into them, then walks back into view, wearing nothing else. “I would think you had chosen these with my pleasure in mind. And I do intend to take it.” When he gets back into bed, he reclines among the pillows at the top, legs bracketing Dirthamen.

 

It is only his trained focus that keeps his eyes forward as he listens. Each dropped item a higher hitch in his breath. When Solas is back in view, in view wearing his underwear, his cock visibly twitches. If that is what his fen'orain does with his pilfered clothes then he does not mind. He unconsciously tests the binding for the first time and finds the hold fast. And with his hair worked into the rope, his movement is limited. A soft whimper escaped him at the slide of the legs against his. A request for him to spell out just what he plans to do twisting on his tongue.

 

“Are you ready to play my game, ma'daris? I'm afraid it is going to be both incredibly easy and difficult for you. I am going to speak, you are going to listen. I am going to touch you only briefly, and seldom. You will do your best to find completion. Now, doesn't that sound fun? If at any point you wish to stop, you will tell me your word. Ask any questions you have now.” Solas makes himself comfortable on his pillows, one hand thrown behind his head, the other stroking, slowly, up and down his thigh. 

 

"May I watch you? Or keep my eyes forward?" Dirthamen asks. He has said little yet spoken much. The goosebumps are racing down his sides now, crossing his chest. Making his nipples perk just a little whether it be the words or the eyes on him.

 

“So long as you remain where you are, and it does not contradict further instructions, do as you like. I will bind your legs if I think it will aid in your compliance. Were those your only questions? Don't be shy.” He daubs more oil on his hand, lets him watch as he lets it drip on his own body. Droplets roll down his sides, down the valley of his pelvic bones to disappear under silky cloth, over the rosy peaks of his nipples. “Poor flower. Only able to touch with your gaze. I can see that you want more.”

 

Bind his legs? Dirthamen cannot imagine more than the intricate pattern he can feel along his arms. His eyes trail the oil as best he can. Tongue darting out a moment to wet his lips as it awakens a hunger for something in his mouth. No. He has wished for his voice. He must remain strong. He closes his eyes for a moment. "What... would you wish me to do? In my want of more?"

 

Solas chuckles.  “Want. Suffer with the wanting. Let me see it. Eyes open, now. On me.” He tweaks one of his own nipples one handed, a slow, wet twists, pulling until it slips from his grip. Moves on to the other. “There now. This is what you want me to do to you. The slide of oil makes it warm. Sharp and hot. “Just awakening my body, for now. But you are already there, aren't you? Can you still feel the pressure from my hands? Is your skin tingling where the blood is flowing? You're already so hard for me.”

 

The eyes open. Watching every movement and every given direction. His body is a will of its own, responding the voice and his own memories. He shivers from the exertion. Nipples hardened from the goosebumps that seem to trace over his skin like ghosting hands. His cock is curved into his stomach, a little smear against his abdomen. Dirthamen opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a desiring whimper.

 

“Good boy. You're following orders well. You're beautiful.” He moves his hands over his own body, eyes never leaving Dirthamen's as he describes how each touch feels. “I knew you would look so sweet, bound for me, on your knees. Nails on my chest leaving icy pleasure in each red line. You want to touch, but can't. My cock is aching for me to touch it, but not yet. Can you feel your frustration growing? Mixing with the desire to be touched, fanning both flames hotter?” He sets both hands, gently, on Dirthamen's thighs and lets gravity drag them down, nails scratching. “It’s not enough, is it? You need it harder. I won't give it to you.”

 

The nails on his thighs has Dirthamen almost doubling over. The first touch since this started. His breath hitches high in his throat. But he's had to move everything, his arms curling harder behind his back so his braid doesn't rip at his scalp. So he straightens, trying to regain himself. Shifting his weight in little thrusts so the skin of his legs moves under Solas' hands.

 

“Mm, that’s it, show me how much you want. I've wanted you in me again, last time was enough to drive me out of my mind. Hot and slick and giving me what I needed after teasing so long.” One hand disappears into the underwear, bypassing his hard prick to find his hole. He circles it with one finger, clearly outlined in silk. “I want to fill you, to let you feel how good it is on that first stretch, body giving and taking at once. You'd cry out when I took you, wouldn't you? You wouldn't be able to help it, da'daris.” More than one finger can be seen sinking into his body, the oil just enough to find a balance between slick and rough. His words are becoming breathier as he goes on, teasing them both for minutes at a time.  “I still wouldn't touch your cock, so I can watch you become more and more desperate the closer you came, oh, sweet, it would be unbearable and you'd love it, wouldn't you?”

 

He wants to nod but is bound against it. He wants to speak but the words don't form in his mouth. The fingers, from the hand outlined in silk, move in and out of his lover. Hips moving unconsciously in imitation of the movements. Remembering the time when fingers were inside him. He had watched Solas take wild pleasure in being taken. How could he forget, when he had been the other participant? The tease of being the one claimed instead has him flushed even more, like a new discovery waiting to unfold. His legs try to move, to shift his body higher, as if he might rub his own entrance down against Solas' hand.

 

He withdraws his hand from himself with a coy smile, and turns it palm up so that Dirthamen can rub futility against it as he wishes. “I'm going to give you a list of choices, little flower. You'll only get one, so attend me closely. Do you want these fingers to be in you? I would let you have you fill of them till you are shaking and desperate. Do you want your voice? You could beg for anything, you could plead mercy. I am weak against you, I may grant it. I would love to hear you. Or shall I touch you, give you some relief? I hardly need to state the benefits, though I warn you, I won't give you release just yet. Speak to answer.”

 

"Fingers." The answer comes swiftly, yet not entirely from desperation. This place, this time, it's as if he does not wish to hear himself. Not even in his own thoughts. He wants his lover's, his beloved's voice, to be the one to wrap around him. To curl inside of himself and spread to every fiber within him.  To drown out the other voices he can never be rid of. Dirthamen grinds against the palm desperately. Waiting. Hoping.

 

“A fine choice. Just a moment, and I'll take care of you.” He leans over to his pile of clothes, wiping his hand clean on one before applying more oil and sliding back into place. “Move forward here.” He pulls him till he is straddling his waist, letting the position spread his legs. “Be good for me, won't you ma'daris? Take a breath.” He rubs against him as he had done himself, teasing the edges and getting him far wetter than he prefers for himself. “Good, let it out. Again.” He dips inside with just the tip of a finger, in and out shallowly. “Good. You've done this before? My sweet, one might get the impression you were thinking of them when alone, and be flattered. One more deep breath. Let’s see you take it.” He pushes all the way in, withdraws, immediately adds another finger and repeats. “There, good, so good, you're taking it so well, good boy.”

 

Dirthamen's breathing patterns just as he asks. Measured intakes and exhales of breath. Relaxing; not quite as tense as one might expect. But it's more than the fact it's as Solas said with practicing on himself. He knows he is safe. His eyes are flushed, but his eyes are soft as he locks gazes with his fen'orain. He bites his lower lip as the whimpers turn to moans in his throat. It is beautiful to watch. The focused gaze becoming distracted. His body both trying to remain still and yet move at the same time.

 

Solas gasps softly as his arousal spikes at the sight before him. It’s hard to continue to meet his eyes and what he sees there, but he won't abandon him now, so he grits his teeth, ignores his blush, and bears it. “Da'dar-Dirthamen, if you could see what you look like now. I cannot remember wanting someone more.” He continues moving his hand, just those two fingers, in and out, scissoring apart. Giving him just this much and nothing more, till he can't think for wanting to be fucked.  “I want to hear my name on your lips while you writhe with pleasure. What you do to me. I… for you. --My regard for you is... you are of great value to me?”

 

The blush appears to deepen if at all possible. A smile breaking through for a moment, understanding in a way and warm with love. But a movement has him arching. Hips moving on their own to meet the machinations of the fingers instead of him. His breathes and whimpers are picking back up again. Coiling. Releasing. Straining.

 

This last sweet show of emotion is more than he can take laying down. Solas twists his hips, unbalancing the man on top of him to the side, then under him. He shoulders under one leg, straddling the other, keeping him spread out and vulnerable. Still his hand moves, in and out, sliding against him. He seeks out the sweet spot inside him, ghosting around it, nearly there, nearly. “You're not going to be coming any time soon, dearest. Not until you've shown me that you properly want it. Moan, whimper, cry. It's going to be the most amazing thing you'll have ever felt, just like this, darling, daris.”

 

The movement is so sudden it made Dirthamen cry out in surprise. But the shock is soon giving way to pleasure again. With his arms bound and leg pinned, he is most likely physically incapable to free himself without magic or contortion. But it does not concern him. The voice of his wolf and his fingers. That is all that matters. The sounds spill forth, not because Solas demanded or expected it, but because they are true.  Freed, because he is allowed to be heard. Moans that pitch into a keen when that spot is ghosted against. Whimpers and swallowed frustration when he withdrawals too far or too long. His face buries into the fabric, nuzzles and arching, one of the few things left he can move.

 

“Good, good boy. Fuck. I want you, to suck you till you spill in my mouth, to fuck you while you are still mindless with pleasure. I want you in me, damn, so much, again and again, till I can't walk. Till my voice is gone for calling out in pleasure. I could have your mouth, right now, grip your hair and have my own. Would you enjoy it, having that? You would, but I won't be distracted further from my game. I think you've had enough from this.” He leans down to take his the head of his cock in his mouth, licking away all of the precum that's gathered there while hitting that spot full on, just once, then all together pulling away.

 

"Ah!" He almost spills at that. And the begging that tumbles out of his mouth after is nothing but incoherent babble. Please. A dozen times, two dozen times, breathless and whimpering as he tries to move after him. He's right on the cusp, knows it, feels it, but wants to be taken over instead of falling himself. The few shorter strands of red hair not caught in the braid are plastered to his skin in wispy fashions. Trembling, he tried to return his gaze to his fen'orain.

 

“You can come, can't you? Just like this, from hearing my voice? Talk to me, darling, that’s right. Ma'daris.” Finally, he reaches for his own cock, simply pulling the silk to the side as he moves his hand on himself quickly. “Struggle, buck, plead and beg and threaten as you like. Does every inch of you feel like it’s been struck by lightning? Is there a fire in your blood that curls your toes, bends your limbs, arches your back? Tell me, now.”

 

"I want you. I-I want your voice around me. Pushing inside me until I can't even hear my own heart. Beating so rapidly, for you, making me warm and ache a-and...ah!" His hips bucked again, back arching in response. The words are more desperate, almost sobbing. "Please, Solas. Please. So close, right there, like I'm building and want, need, the word. The rush of final magic to unleash in my veins..."

 

“Perfect, you're so perfect, you're amazing. You are a constant surprise, always soft when I expect hardness, clever and giving. I wasn't looking for you, I never expected someone like you.” He surrenders to impulse, unable to not be touching him. He presses kisses to his feet, ankles, over his stomach, up to his neck, jaw, by his ear. “I love you.”

 

 His voice has the expected outcome. And yet... not. Dirthamen cries out, arching, a beautiful arch of pale skin and long limbs. He spills in long ropes over his belly and elsewhere with the movements. Body trembling long after. Somehow still elegant in his disarray. The magic bursts with him. Waves after wave of warmth and light. Weaving around them like the trails of shooting stars. But his breath is still erratic. Swallowing gasps that trail off. His face is pressed into the silk. Lips trembling. Tears pearling at the corner of his eyes.

 

“Beautiful, beautiful. Perfect.” He withdraws his wet and sticky hand and carelessly wipes it off on the top of the coverlet. He spends a moment enjoying the literal afterglow, head pillowed on his lover’s chest. “Mm....I bet you can't feel your hands. Turn over for me?” He nudges him a little till he can get at his knots, rubbing at the red marks and his hands as he slowly unfolds them. “Slowly, now. Easy. It'll hurt less if you don't force it. There, good. So good, precious.” He wraps him up in his arms from behind, and hides his face in the back of his neck. He knows he is beginning to overthink things. But he still wishes for an eluvian with which to make a quick escape before any words that might have been spoken in a heat of the moment sort of way can be discussed...not that they may or may not have been, well, they were, true, but...He slowly grows more tense.

 

"Fen'orain... Solas." Dirthamen turns in the embrace, carefully. Until they are facing each other. He reaches out, arm still a little bit numb and unused to its normal movements, and cradles his heart's face in his palm. The warmth light and feeling has yet to abate, settling like wisping trails of smoke. A gentle kiss is placed. First one. Then another. Solas might be able to taste Dirthamen's heart fluttering up in each contact. Body slowly pushing and pulling flush against his as if he'll never let him go. "Vhenan, ma fen'orain. That... I... what I meant... oh. It seems I am speechless before you." A soft smile, like the one before.

 

“I think there has been quite enough speaking done already, vhenan. Do you require anything? Water?” This is said into his breastbone as he tucks his head under his chin, clinging equally as tight. His ear lays right against his heart, listening to the pounding. Letting himself be soothed by the rhythm as it slows.

 

There are fingers threading their way through the dark hair. Pressing across the scalp gently. Massaging in little circles before drawing out through the strands. He makes the little movements over and over again. Petting and combing. The warmth threading into contentment. "Later, perhaps. Right now, I don't think we can move..." A brush against his bare shoulder. "Did my magic hurt you? Forgive me... I seems I have a little trouble when we are involved..."

 

“No, it feels like laying in a sunbeam. I enjoy that I am able to so thoroughly break your control and get some of my own back. You can keep doing that, if you like.” He pushes up into the hand on his head, turning it into a full body stretch. “Mm, yes. I enjoyed our game, but missed your touch. Did you? I understand if it not to everyone's taste.”

 

Dirthamen nuzzles into the dark head. If he were a cat he would purr at this moment. His hand continues carding through the strands, arching into his lover's body. "I did... very much. I, uh... Thank you for indulging me. I am... weak when your voice is involved." A smile against his hair, a husker whisper. "You are... shy... in your sweet moments..."

 

He says nothing, helpless as his shoulders become tense. After a few moments he begins to fuss with the covers, bringing them over them both. He still remains quiet, red face hidden behind his hair, or finally into a pillow.

 

"Solas?" The beloved name comes softly. As do the hands that touch, that hope he can catch his gaze. "Please forgive me, vhenan. I did not intend to embarrass you..." A hand moved to now pet along the spine. "Your confidence is what is gives me my own. But... in those moments... it's as if you showed me all of you. As precious to me as you say I am to you."

 

“I do not speak well, or easily of personal matters. Please forgive me. Perhaps it is an even exchange, that I can be… that, vulnerable. With you. Ah, see. I am still. Not yet. Apologies.”  He sighs, closing his eyes and making an effort to calm himself.  “I thank you. Ma vhenan. I will not take your regard for granted, I swear it.”

 

There is a kiss to his forehead. An arm cradling his head. "You don't need to apologize. And I won't press it..." There is another kiss. Then one to each of his eyes. "I must have said it before... But when you came, when I turned and saw your face for the first time..." There is a nervous yet happy chuckle reverberating in Solas ' ear. How can he say it? He already knew he was in love from their previous encounters, and that his appearance wouldn't matter. But to see him without the mask... Dirthamen closed his eyes and laid his fingertips against a sharp cheekbone. "I have wished to memorize your face, fen'orain...if you would permit it..."

 

“I cannot hear you, I've fallen asleep. How fortuitous for you. I can offer no resistance to your study.” He relaxes further, a small smile playing about his mouth. He twines one hand around Dirthamen’s braid, holding it close while he waits patiently and still, eyes closed, drifting perilously close to his lie becoming truth as the tension leaves him.

 

The fingers that trace his face are gentle. The tips are the slightest bit thicker, rougher, from turning pages or studying new disciplines. The raised bone of his cheek. The sharp line of his jaw. The little dent in his chin or the tiny scar on his forehead. His own breath is evening out, his other hand slowly in his hair. And a strange thought suddenly comes to him. Contentment. How he wished for a thousand nights, no, more than a thousand years of simply this. Hmm, not quite, ah... Not simply this, holding his love close to him, but also waking up to his touch and voice in the morning as well. Dirthamen is almost asleep at the thought, fingers slowing, but then presses his lips to his ear. "You have whispered visions of taking me these past three times... next time... will you fulfill?"

 

Solas draws in a gasp, eyes snapping open. “You know just what to say to capture a man’s attention, da'daris. Yes. I had no intention of denying you that. I would have earlier, but I feared overwhelming you. Fuck. How am I to fall asleep with that thought in my mind? Fiend.” He lazily rolls on top of the other, head resting on his chest. “Take your punishment.” He ghosts his fingers softly against his sides, tickling.

 

Dirthamen's breath released in a soft sigh. The touch is hovering right between tickling and worshipping. A chuckle escaping, a leg jerking. He tries to cover his mouth, looking aloof. "If can be something for you... for us... to look forward to next time?"

 

“I should see you properly penitent, but I can be merciful. I will look forward to great anticipation for next time.” He frowns to himself, thoughts of the future intruding. “We will have much to discuss in the morning, vhenan. We will have to be cautious. But it can wait for morning. Sleep.” He kisses him once more, shifting into a more comfortable position. He expects he will worry for some time more before sleep finds him, now that he has started.

 

"I know, fen'orain. But..." Dirthamen swallows. He isn't denying the truth of what his wolf said. He has thought it many times himself, considering just who it is that comprise his brother and even father. A hand takes Solas', slowly interlacing the fingers, holding it between them. "Together, at least. We can worry together." A tentative smile, a gentle kiss that lingers.

 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirthamen's safeword choice, Nescience, is defined as "lack of knowledge or understanding; ignorance"

**Author's Note:**

> Elvhen Translations:
> 
> da'daris / ma'daris : little flower / my flower
> 
> fen'orain: equivalent to darling, but also chosen since it includes fen (which also means wolf)


End file.
